The Sorrows of Pendragons
by Doberler
Summary: Gwen is banished, Arthur is broken, and Merlin is on a quest in search of the bracelet. Follow Gwen as she sets out on her new life, Arthur as he comes to terms with their separation, and Merlin's struggle whether to reveal what he knows, or wait to find the innocuous object that tore them all apart. Starts at the end of Lancelot du Lac through the Sword in the Stone, then goes AU.
1. Broken Deeds

Special thanks to KIMMIKY, who has more faith in me that I have in myself. Updated 1/5/2018. Cover art by Ekta Creation, art/arthur-and-gwen-511211042

I don't own Merlin.

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Broken Deeds

Arthur was too wounded to appreciate the splash of brilliant reds in the morning sky, its beauty lost on him as Guinevere came into visual range pulling her carted belongings behind her. His pace on the wall walk matched hers, slow and difficult, keeping to what little shadow dawn hadn't swallowed up yet, the guards taking nervous care not to obstruct him. He saw Merlin after a moment trailing her from a distance, his every tentative step screaming out his helplessness.

The king's heart breaking and his loneliness stretching taut with every struggling step Gwen took, he crossed his arms tight over his front as if they could comfort him. She'd hurt him, embarrassed him, betrayed him in the worst kind of way and he'd thrown her out. Out of his heart, his life, his kingdom.

His Guinevere. The love of his life. He'd cherished her, had once promised that her home would be hers forever, and Arthur quaked with ill ease that it ended up a lie. Did she remember that promise, too? Did she feel betrayed by him on some level? No matter. Her happiness no longer significant and allowing her to remain in Camelot and so close would be a constant reminder of his failure and her disgrace.

Yes, this was for the best. He'd made the right decision, a merciful decision, his mind shying instinctively from the thought that that might be a lie, too. Dragged from the comfort of his bed by his uncle, Agravaine, to witness Guinevere in Lancelot's locked in a passionate kiss, the man's roaming hands embracing her places that were supposed to be reserved for him. This happening the night before their wedding made it much more intense.

Arthur had snapped, rage fueling a mighty desire to drive Lancelot threw as he rushed him with a bellowing roar. Their duel was frenzied, both taking turns to gain advantage one time or another. When Lancelot had lost his sword and Arthur had the edge, Guinevere had thrown herself between them, pleading and protecting Lancelot with her body. She'd stunned Arthur into silence and he could only stare at her with incredulous eyes full of hurt. He could hardly catch his breath from the duel, his lungs expanding for air in his chest, but her sacrificial action sucked the life out of him. His world had come to an utter end.

Blue eyes, bereft and hollow, now followed her down the stone cobbled road toward the southern gates. Arthur could not see Gwen's face from the wall walk, his position and distance making it impossible. But he knew it must be something akin his: full of confusion and unimaginable sorrow. Anger and disgust were just beneath the surface, too, and Arthur ground his teeth, the veins in his jaws pumped full. He'd fallen in love with Guinevere for many reasons, remembering the first time the way she'd nailed him on his behavior so long ago in Ealdor and awaking a side of himself that he'd neglected. He was a rich man with privilege, royalty. That in itself blinded his selfish flaws from him. He was used to finer things and had the power to demand the best, expected it actually, and most times he'd respond with bullish retribution unbecoming of a so-called honorable man.

The girl's courage to challenge him that day fascinated Arthur. Gwen had grown up in his household and all that time he'd thought her timid, kind of plain, and someone to lord over and keep at a distance, especially since she was Morgana Le Fay's handmaiden, his childhood arch enemy. He'd practically ignored her. His discovery in Ealdor that there was so much more to her, that Guinevere was brave, a defiant seeker of justice and graceful humility had surprised him. She'd handed him a berating that no other woman had ever dared save Morgana, and that stunned him awake, a breath of life into his otherwise stale and predictable existence.

He couldn't stop turning an eye toward her and before he knew it, frightfully discovered that he possibly loved her not long after. It had been a tumultuous affair ever since then, but God, he did love her with all his heart. It would not hurt so much if he did not. All for nothing, for Arthur could not find it in his now broken heart to forgive her, nor to forgive himself for not being good enough to retain her interest and hold her love.

The footfalls of Sir Leon of Willowdale, first knight of Camelot's finest, made his presence known and matched Arthur's slow, stealthy pace as he came up from behind. He'd been in the council chambers when Guinevere was brought in, had watched his childhood friend forced onto her knees in front of an empty throne that would once again pass judgement on her. He was torn between one of his oldest friendships and an allegiance to his sovereign. Sadly, when it came right down to it, there would never be a question of loyalty divided for him. Arthur was his king.

"Sire, it's been arranged. Bernard will be at the gate as you ordered." Leon could deliver the worst of news with the gentlest of voices and sometimes that grated against Arthur. This time was no exception. It wasn't as if the news was bad actually. It was what the news meant, the finality of it that made Arthur's insides quake.

"Send two guards with her," the king said. "Your best soldiers, none with families or considerable holdings." There were more to the words than the emotion in his voice, his long-practiced regal mask easily on display to hide the roiling feelings underneath. "She can defend herself well enough, but the countryside is dangerous, especially for an unprotected woman. I don't want to see her harmed."

Leon swallowed a lump, at odds with his own feelings concerning the state of things. He felt sorry for his sovereign being a married man himself and knowing that happiness was always a risk, that love was a madness that caused madness. Things were not well within his own marital relationship and the thought of losing his wife hit too close heart. "Yes, sire."

"And don't let her see them." Arthur stopped and turned his head to look at Leon for the first time, the noble's unruly curls falling onto his brow and around a lightly bearded face. The lean and tall knight hid well the distress behind light blue eyes. As a captain of his men, the highest level of control was demanded in order to maintain discipline and respect. The balance of severity and compassion that motivated as well as instilled a degree of fear. "I fear she'll dismiss them out of principle, or integrity, or some other damned thing. They are there to protect her until she…until she finds somewhere safe." There was a good likelihood that Gwen would find love again, too. She had many fine qualities that could snare another heart he was sure. Regrettably, he wished he hadn't thought that and shook away a low throaty groan.

Leon's eyebrows scrunched together, his moustache twitching above thinning lips. "That could take months, sire," he said, his voice still gentle, yet slightly elevated.

"Then it takes months!" Arthur spat, straining to keep his tone low, though piercing as a shard of glass. He was volatile, his nerves frayed already and unravelling them would not take much. But as he'd learned because of his commoner mentors, Merlin and Gwen, he reined in his ire with concerted effort and a surrendering wave of a hand.

"Yes, my lord. It will be done."

Leon turned to leave, but stopped and faced the king, knowing full well the internal conflict raging within his friend. If he lost his wife, Mylla, or one of the twins, he was sure he'd turn into a raving lunatic. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I know what she meant to you."

Not the first time since all this began did Arthur's throat seize and the sting of water beneath his lids threaten to show themselves in public. He blinked them away quickly, ashamed of his weakness, of showing his brokenness to anyone who wasn't Guinevere and now she was gone.

"To us all," Arthur managed to croak deeply, swallowing a lump all the same. He returned his vigil to the woman approaching the gates, the dawn of this new day and the days to come as bleak as ever.

"Leon," Arthur called after him, but not bothering to look in his direction. "Post a severe warning on her home to deter any thievery or vandalism, then board it up. I don't want anyone _**ever**_ living in there again."

…

Merlin's heart was deeply grieved: for Lancelot, the real Lancelot, his body summoned from the dead to be Morgana's pawn with ill intent against friends. For Arthur, his friend and master suffering yet another crushing betrayal from two people he loved. But mostly his heart bled for Gwen. He knew she was wracked with shame and guilt for what she'd done and with no one to comfort her, she must be consumed with grief and feeling as abandoned as streets now were. A tear rolled down Merlin's cheek as an involuntary puff of air escaped his nostril. This was so unfair.

But he watched her go, looked her straight in the eye but unable to find any words to say to her, not even a "fair thee well." It was just too difficult and too surreal that this tragedy had actually unfolded anyway. He was numb, mixed up, and certain this was not how it was supposed to be. He'd later try to convince himself that it was because his failure to stop the Shade Lancelot had consumed his rational thought and saying anything to Gwen during her pitiable departure would have only made the situation worse. But Merlin knew that was a lie, that he was just too cowardly to face her squarely because he'd in the end, he'd failed. He had become rather good at doing that of late.

He could explain his actions any more than he could Elyan's. He was her brother, the defender of House Leodegrance. Why had he not been there to support her? Or leave with her now to protect her? The same could be asked of any of the other knights who'd called her friend. These thoughts vexed Merlin mightily, but he despairingly understood. Their loyalty to Arthur was unquestionable and betrayal of this kind could not be paid with sympathy nor the least bit of understanding on the perpetrator's part. Gods, no one had foreseen this and it shocked them all into inaction. Still, after all Gwen had done for each of them, did she not deserve the least bit of empathy from at least one of them.

She was as pure and as loyal as anyone that he knew. It wasn't like her, this betrayal. Of all people, not Gwen. What could possess her to do such a thing? He was there when she and Lancelot had first met, and sure, there was a definite attraction, but the fallen knight's honor could never keep him around long enough for them to do anything about it. That fire had long turned to cold cinders after Arthur threw his interest her way. Merlin had had a few doubts about that reeling relationship, too, mainly because the two of them didn't know what they wanted or what to do in the first place. But they loved each other, truth, and those closest to them saw sparks ignite whenever they were near each other.

So odd. Within a day of Lancelot's return Gwen seemed off a little come to think of it, especially when his serendipitous glance caught her somewhat clandestine entrance into Lancelot's tent. He now mentally kicked himself for not asking her about that. It may have been a hard conversation to have, but as her friend, he might have been able to sense that something was foul and maybe he would have had a chance to clean it up before something really bad happened.

But he didn't. And something really bad did happen, a twisted game of the heart that tore lovers and friends apart. All Merlin could think about at the time was keeping Arthur safe. He was so sure that the king was target that he didn't think to consider anyone else could be. He was a fool.

Yet still, how could Gwen's affections toward Lancelot turn so quickly? It made no sense and screamed an enchantment, but Merlin had no proof. It probably would not make much of a difference either way. He couldn't reveal the truth that Lancelot was the necromantic shell of their dead friend and maybe, somehow, he enchanted Gwen. It sounded ridiculous. Merlin sighed, trailing her like a stray dog and still battling whether or not to say something to her.

Gwen finally reached the gates and wiped her brow with a sleeve after stopping with the cart. Gods, it would take her weeks to get anywhere at the pace she was traveling; and the terrain was as hostile and unmerciful as the environment she was treading in to. Merlin's bottom lip trembled and angry water came to his eyes as his fists balled. This wasn't right. Arthur didn't know what he was doing once again. None of this was making any sense to him.

Merlin's anger waned as quickly as it had surfaced when one of the grooms, Old Bernard they called him, approached Gwen with a donkey, saddle bags overly stuffed and hay strapped to a dock. She declined the offering with a shake of her head and tried to move forward with her heavy burden on her own, but Bernard said something to stop her, his posture pleading. She relented with a quick nod after brief consideration, thank goodness, allowing the experienced groom to hitch the animal to her cart. He handed Gwen the reins and departed after a humble bow to her.

She just stood there, holding the reins and watching Bernard disappear behind the wide castle gates, heading back toward the royal stables Merlin could tell. Gwen glanced at him then, but said nothing in the loud stillness. Merlin could see the internal struggle behind sad, brown eyes before she looked away and continued down the well-trodden path leading into the Forest of Brechtfa, the donkey and all that she had left in the world in tow. The great forest soon swallowed her up and she was gone.

All the joy in Merlin had drained out of him and pooled under his feet, cementing him in place. She'd been the first friend he'd made when he arrived in Camelot and had been fierce in her loyalty to him, sometimes putting herself at risk to aid him, sometimes to save him. So what kind of friend was he now? His chest ached, and he let the tears finally fall warm on his cheeks. Merlin loved her, too, and the king had sent her away. Arthur's spirit wasn't the only one crushed on this terrible day.

He entered the courtyard, shoulders slumped with despair but determined to make Arthur see reason. About to ascend the steps, he heard the clop of horses' hooves behind him and he stopped, peering over his shoulder. Sir Leon was speaking to two militia soldiers, both dressed in travelling clothes that bore no Camelot colors or markings or the traditional military livery they normally wore. Escetir-branded horses were laden with supplies and weapons and Merlin didn't miss the exchange of coin from Leon to both of them before he grasped their arms in farewell and sent them off.

They didn't mount their horses to ride off on whatever mission the first knight had sent them. With no sense of urgency, they walked with casual ease out of the square and not a word between them. Leon caught the curious eye Merlin had slid back to him, but without saying a word, spun on his heels and headed back toward the army barracks. Merlin's gaze drifted back to the departing soldiers now past the drawbridge and wished he could smile, but it was too hard given the lives that had just been shattered.

…

Lancelot du Luc had been summoned back from the dead with dark magic, returning in the shade of the once-noble knight, now just mass filled with vile intentions to the ruin of two lives, three if the violation against the real Lancelot's body, honor, and integrity counted. Not long after its wicked deed resulted in Guinevere's banishment, the necromantic Lancelot took its own life and with it went the machinations of Morgana's deception, the reputations of honorable friends and broken hearts in its wake.

Merlin had taken its body to the Lake of Avalon and prepared a burial barge, an abundance of yellow flowers that it did not deserve haloing it. But the body was Lancelot's, his friend. He, at least, deserved it.

Merlin placed a gentle hand upon Lancelot's forehead, cold to his touch it was, and then whispered an ancient prayer, a blessing to ease the passage of this spirit into the next life regardless of its evil nature. The breath of life that suddenly came from the corpse startled Merlin and he jerked his hand back, the prayer proving to be more powerful than he'd expected.

"Merlin," Lancelot breathed softly, a gentle and familiar smile forming on his lips and in his eyes. It was definitely more than just a prayer. The shade appeared to be gone. This was Lancelot du Lac, the knight of Camelot lost to them earlier this year, his true soul reunited once more with his body. Merlin puffed with relief as a smile spread across his lips.

To his dishonor, Lancelot was aware of what had happened, the vile deed he was forced to carry out; had been there all along, bound by Morgana in the deep recesses and unable to do anything about it. He hadn't the strength now to even lift a hand, his body atrophied, his soul heavy with desire to be returned to his final resting place and urging him back into the darkness. But remnants of the shade still lurked for its own existence within him. There was little time.

"Bracelet…" Lancelot whispered with effort. Dry lips worked to form another word, but it never came in the struggle. Merlin's brow scrunched together, anxious to understand.

"Thank you," he breathed, exhausting the last of his breath and then closing his, his journey to rejoin the dead over. Perhaps, he'd earned passage to Avalon this time instead of returning to the harrowing darkness of the Veil.

Merlin could only guess that being dead and coming back to life could cause anyone's brain to scramble and spew out nonsensical words. "Bracelet" meant nothing to him, a random word fired from a traumatized brain. But Lancelot's heart-felt gratitude was undeniable and for a brief moment in time, Merlin smiled. He'd actually done something right during this whole wretched mess.

…

As of 1/6/2018, the succeeding chapters have not been updated. Read at your own risk. ㈴2


	2. Let Mourning be Your Comfort

Thanks, KIMMIKY! You're always a big help!

I don't own Merlin.

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 2 Let Mourning Be Your Comfort

The last light of dawn greeted shards of sunlight as they burst through the fading colors of the clouds. With the tree line of the forest looming ahead, she steeled herself against the hellish reality upon entering the Forest of Brechtfa. Camelot would be out of sight not long after that, and so would the fairytale life she'd once had, a life little girls dreamt of, a life she'd turned into a nightmare by her shameful actions against the man she loved. A cool breeze chilled her, and she tightened the animal-skinned wrap across her shoulder, securing it even tighter through her waistband.

Relentless and disgraceful memories flooded her thoughts, scandalous and surreal, and cruelly twisting her into someone she didn't recognize. Was that truly her in those brazen memories? Kissing Lancelot, hungry for him, and relishing the feel of his touch? Had she forsaken her true love to be with her lost love, her first love? And was she really being forced to leave all that she knew, all that she loved? Moreover, by Arthur's decree? Why did not he just execute her and get it over? This wasn't really happening, was it? She was supposed to be getting married today.

Guinevere struggled to wrap her thoughts around what had happened in the last seven hours, and how fast it had happened. She'd loved Arthur ever since her father was killed, when he held her in his arms and let her grieve as long as she'd needed. When he'd secretly taken Tom's body, not to the communal pit for traitors to be discarded without ceremony, but to Trajan's Knoll and buried him with respect.[i] There were so many memories between them that she cherished, but that one was where he'd shown a kinder, gentler side of him to her for the first time, something she felt he'd kept guarded and shared with few. That was when she was sure she loved him.

So why had she kissed Lancelot? Was her desire for him stronger than her love for Arthur? She shook her head, denial on her lips. That wasn't true. That wasn't how it was. That wasn't how it was supposed to happen, how it was supposed to be.

The donkey's nose brushed against her sleeve, breaking her rampant train of thought, and she raised a hand to her forehead, a thumb pressing into her temple. It was true. It was all true, and she had no one to blame but herself. Her heart clenched at her betrayal, of losing Arthur and her home, and her stomach twisted painfully at the reality of it. Surely, he believed that she'd played him for a fool all this time and did not love him. What had she done? Why couldn't she control herself? She inhaled a cleansing breath and looked at the donkey.

"Old Bernard says your name is Basil." She stroked his mane, her voice cracking. "I'm Guinevere. But my friends call me Gwen. I can use one right now. It looks like that's going to be you for a while."

Her red-rimmed eyes wandered over the bulging saddle bags, farewell tokens from Arthur that never should have been given; cold, hard things for survival instead of warm, sensual things for a bride. She had lost him to a kiss. But it wasn't just a kiss, was it? It was an act of treason against the crown, an attack against his person, and Arthur had had the power to have her executed. She guessed he loved her enough to let her live, though she didn't know how she would do that just now. Living took effort and energy that she didn't have at the moment, right now the best she could do was survive.

The road curved east, into the trees, tall birch sentries whispering amongst themselves in the cool morning breeze. It reminded her of the whispers that had followed her from her home to the gates though without the malice attached. Gwen stopped her forward progress and turned around, the great white-stoned castle gleamed from the first rays of the sun, red pennants swaying in the breeze atop the conical towers of the citadel. They were supposed to pronounce her wedding day, a shout to the world proclaiming their union, and their love, now abject reminders of the injury she'd caused the king, wounding him deeper than any sword ever could.

"Oh, Arthur. I never meant to hurt you." She couldn't keep the tears at bay, her breath catching in her chest, her lips quivering with every sob. "I'm so sorry for what I did to you. Please forgive me." But there was no one there to hear her, the apology lost on the wind.

It was getting harder to take those final steps into the forest, but she had no choice. She had to move on. With one final glimpse over one shoulder, she bade farewell to her old life and walked into the trees and into a new life of grief, shame, and sorrow. Nevertheless, as bitter and as fearful as the future seemed, she vowed to endure; she had to, it was in her blood. She would do whatever it took to survive.

An inventory of the saddle bags lifted her spirits a little, the supplies from Arthur generous and useful: a map, flint and wet stone, rope and hand spade, a dagger, a blanket in one bag, and two water skins, dried meats, grains, beans, and a few other objects of purpose in the other. A soldier's pack. She cradled the map to her chest. "Thank you, Arthur." Her eyes scanned over the contents, the thoroughness of it, and remembering that Arthur wouldn't have packed this himself, a thin smile tugged at her lips. "Thank you, Leon."

She stashed the dagger in her belt as the waterworks threatened to fall again. Arthur, the good king and her beloved, saw her need even through his anger and hurt. She reasoned that given the time to pack all that she could in the few hours she'd had before first light, he knew her well enough to know that in her grief and in her haste, something as necessary as life-sustaining supplies was the last thing on her mind. Arthur must have known that she wouldn't have been thinking about her well-being, her mind fogged in what she'd done more than what she'd need, and what lay ahead. He'd always been her rock in her time of need, always thoughtful, strong, and reassuring, and she'd forsaken it all for a kiss. Returning the survival contents to the bags, she didn't fight the war of mind and heart and wept again. She had made a mess of her life, and Arthur's, and had no way to straighten it out, clean it up, or make it go away.

The map lay across her knees, the words and images blurred in her vision. Where would she go? She should have been preparing for her wedding at this time, having her hair styled, her nails cleaned and polished, fussed over by three ladies and three servants. She never liked that part anyway, all the attention for doing something that she knew perfectly well how to do herself. Well, she did need help with the wedding dress with all its clasps, and ribbons, and lace…Had needed help, she reminded herself.

When the tears stopped long enough for her vision to clear, her eyes surveyed the map, and traced routes through villages and landmarks, and the vastness of it sent another wave of total loss, of abandonment, of no one there in her time of dire need. She was in this fearfully alone and she still had a decision to make. Where to go. Guinevere called upon her own inner strengths and held on to them. She would need it in the days to come, never one to depend on others so much that she was helpless. So, now was when she needed to prove to herself that it was still within her to fight.

She would travel to Longstead, a village southeast of Camelot at the foot of the Feore Mountains, and appeal to Mary and John for temporary shelter. They would take her in for a while, there was no doubt, until she could find work and a place of her own. That would be the easy part. The rest, well, she would leave that to fate, and whatever she gave to see to it herself. As a servant working hard for what she wanted was all she'd known.

Last minute arrivals would still be traveling the main roads toward Camelot for the wedding and celebrations, so she decided to avoid them. She didn't want to see that, and be reminded again of their broken lives. She had enough guilt to do that all on her own. Once she made it out of the forest, she'd keep close to the river, and stop in a village or two if necessary, but avoid contact with others as much as possible. It would take her over a week to get to Longstead, longer if Arthur had not gifted her the donkey. The tears came again thinking of him, his generosity even after what she had done to him, and the sting of her new existence. For the first time in all of this, she felt sorry for herself, abandoned, forsaken, and unloved. She rolled the mapped and placed it in the top of the saddlebag, burying those feelings as best she could for as long as she could.

"Let's go, Basil. We have a long journey."

Merlin, between running errands for Gaius and taking care of Arthur, found himself thinking of Lancelot and Guinevere…a lot. The dull ache of her absence would not leave him, and he imagined that it must be twofold for Arthur. Somehow, he felt it was more.

Arthur was not the same.

But neither had been Guinevere before this tragedy struck. When she'd been forced to kneel in front of the council, all her betters glaring at her, Merlin felt her remorse more than he saw it. She had seemed more herself again, though broken, ashamed, perhaps even terrified. She had to face Arthur and her own betrayal. That must have frightened her more than facing the rabid council surrounding her.

And Lancelot. He had spoken a few words, but only two plagued his thoughts: "The bracelet." Why was it so important that Lancelot would defy death in order to speak those two words?

What had he meant? Merlin knew nothing of a bracelet. Nothing in recent memory triggered even an inkling of a hint. What had he missed over the last few days, his obsession to keep Arthur safe had been so keenly focused on Lancelot?

Did someone have this bracelet, a woman's finery? If so, then who? There were many women who'd come from around the kingdoms to attend the wedding, the tourney, the feast. Many were just curious to size up the upstart servant, the woman who had won the king's heart. Some were even jealous. Had Lancelot fancied any of them? He'd told Merlin that Arthur's love for Gwen was more than he could have given Guinevere, so had he found another to love before he had died? Was there someone out there mourning his loss, and for the second time?

Even if that did make sense, what did it have to do with a bracelet? What, if anything, did this have to do with Gwen?

And what was he to do with it if he found it? What did Lancelot want him to know?

Where would he begin?

That snake, Agravaine, was in league with Morgana, the one who'd orchestrated it all to keep Gwen from ascending the throne, so perhaps that was where he'd start.

…..

The hours ebbed away, the noon shadows and the emptiness in her stomach reminding her that she hadn't eaten anything all morning. She unbridled Basil and led him to the small stream, and then filled the empty water skins for herself. She pulled the blanket from the saddlebag and spread it upon the grass nearby, under a wide oak. It was Spring and the sounds of the forest were alive around her. It was beautiful in the day, but night would be upon her soon enough and she'd become a part of a shadowy realm that had frightened her as a child, its nightscape concealing dangers behind every tree, or rock, or bush, eerily playing tricks with her mind. She pulled out an apple and bit into it. It, along with the bread and hard cheese, was one of the few provisions she had on hand at her home, and would spoil faster than the dried foods Arthur had provided. She tore off a piece of bread and popped it in her mouth, her mind wandering again to what had happened late yesterday evening.

No one defended her, not even her brother, whose only reaction was a mixture of utter disappointment and a dash of contempt. He left her to fend for herself. But his betrayal of their blood-bond did not hurt as much as that look in Arthur's eyes when she stood miserably before him, her face swollen with the wetness of tears, and she with no explanation since even to her they made no sense.

She'd seen Arthur rage on his men before, when something went terribly wrong, or when he was passionate about a cause, but never had it been directed at her. She hadn't thought him capable of such violence toward her. He had hurt her a little, a demand for answers shouted from his lips, his large hands gripping her forearms dug into her flesh, and his face twisted with rage. It was brief, and intense, but enough for her to recoil from his fury, from his grasp. He apologized immediately upon realizing what he was doing, though her arms now bore the bruises as a reminder. They would fade in time, but the hurt and pain in her heart would last forever. That was the last time he touched her, no longer would she feel the gentleness and comfort of his embrace.

With Basil fed and herself physically feeling better, she moved again, every step getting a little easier. Estimating she'd be out of the forest by dusk, she'd camp near its edge one more night for the safety it would provide. Tomorrow, if all goes well, she should be well beyond the Ridge of Chemary by the end of the day.

Night came quickly enough, and Gwen set up her small camp in record time, unbridling, grooming and feeding Basil, and then settling to eat some of the dried meats, hard cheese and bread, though the bread was nearly as hard as the cheese. An owl screeched somewhere above her, and Gwen jumped, her eyes wide and searching the darkness. She'd never liked the forest and being in it at night and alone prickled her skin and knotted her stomach. She should be grateful for its protection, but she'd be glad when she was out of it tomorrow.

"I didn't deserve their defense," she said to herself, slicing a piece of the dried meat, reasoning the actions of her brother and friends. "Elyan's or Merlin's." She had betrayed their king, her king, her beloved. She had taken something that was precious and dear and discarded it without care. She had taken Arthur's heart and love and trust and crushed it all in a matter of minutes.

The tears came again, and her body wracked with every sob. She tried to stoke the small fire for distraction. But it didn't work. All she could think of was Arthur, and what she'd done to him. Now, alone, in the very woods that frightened her as a child, she sat and lamented over her betrayal. In her grief, she could only blame herself, not Lancelot. She would never forgive herself for as long as she lived.

Through all of it, Gwen still couldn't understand why she could not control herself.

She hadn't thought about Lancelot in that way for years. Yes. She had cared for him once, a girlish infatuation perhaps, but one that possibly could have turned into a deeper love if given time. That had all but disappeared when he'd had left her for the second time without so much as a farewell.

She had been relieved by his return, feeling after all, that he had died because of her request, asking him to look after Arthur on their quest to rid the land of the Dorocha. And he had most valiantly with his life, just as he had promised.

Why had he returned? How had he returned? He was supposed to be dead, and his appearance at the betrothal tournament had perplexed her, as it had everyone else. But it had by no means rekindled her desire for him, or so she had thought. Why had his pull on her been so great as to draw her into his arms, into a passionate kiss that Arthur himself had witnessed? Why had she done it? It would be the question that kept her sleep fitful through the long, cold nights in the coming weeks. The question that separated her from the one she truly loved. She could only conclude that she had tried to suppress such feelings, leaving them smoldering underneath her skin until they had burned when he returned unexpectantly.

Guinevere spread out her bedroll and settled with her back against a log. She pulled the dagger from her waistband, drew in her knees, and gazed into her small fire, its sparks and crackling mesmerizing, somewhat soothing. She dwelled on one thing then, her fingers curling securely around the dagger. It wasn't about her rise in station, or becoming queen. She had been his, and he had been hers. She had wanted to be his wife above all else. And now, she had nothing, emptied of all the pleasures of love that would never come.

She would never have the kind of love she had shared with Arthur. She would never be whole again.

…..

Only a few days ago the castle was readying for a Spring wedding, a joyous occasion awash in brilliant colors and festive moods. Now there was gloom in Camelot, a deepening sense of loss, a void realized by everyone who had ever been touched by her presence and her grace. When news of Guinevere's betrayal and banishment hit the masses, there was a mixture of concern, disbelief, and downright loathing for both king and servant. Some wanted him to show mercy, others wanted her treasonous head. The pain of her actions and the burden of his decision was akin to the weight of ages around his neck, so much so that he thought it would snap if he heard one more opinion, or consolation, or murmur of gossip.

Everyone knew this was one of those times to steer clear of the king, give him as wide a berth as possible.

Memories of her haunted him, assaulted him in the corridors, alcoves, throne room, places they'd been together. He could sense her in every corner of the castle, now stark and painful reminders that this was once her home too, and he had sent her away. Even in his chambers, it teased with once happy memories of them. But at least he didn't have to maintain his regal, practiced bearing in there.

He had watched her leave, then ordered the decorations removed from the great hall and corridors, had the uneaten feast distributed to the people, and shoved her wedding present, a delicate sapphire necklace belonging to his mother, deeper into a drawer. He couldn't just throw that away. He had pulled a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and fingered it with misery, love, and pain mixing together, then shoved it into the same drawer. He could not throw that away either.

Arthur had given her his heart, something that he had fiercely protected until she unbound it, and wrapped it around herself, her very essence doing the same to his. She was pure, and honest, and braver than any woman he'd ever met. He could not control her and it had startled him, her passion and compassion, blindsided him even, as her allure pulled his heartstrings in her direction day-by-day, hour-by-hour, minute-by-minute. He had been teetering on the edge ever since Ealdor, resisting to acknowledge the strange emotions of need and desire stirred by the serving girl.

When he had finally laid down his arms and kissed her for the first time in her home all those years ago, the freedom of surrender had been liberating more than he had expected. He had admitted to himself that he loved her, though the concept had still seemed foreign at the time. In over his head but not really caring, all he desired was to be with her after that. He had once been willing to leave Camelot with her, relinquishing his right to the throne to save her life, his love for her so great that Camelot no longer mattered to him.

Arthur was not the same now. He shackled his heart once again and discarded the key, vowing never to allow access to that part of him, to offer that kind of deep love to anyone else ever. His father had been right once again. A politically advantageous match was…better.

He picked up a roll of parchment, the royal seal of Nemeth still unbroken. King Rodor was once again in disagreement with Camelot over Gedref, ancestral property of the Pendragons disputed between the two kingdoms even in his father's time. Perhaps Rodor thought Arthur would be more reasonable, if not weaker, than Uther. They had been attempting to settle an equitable treaty in confidential exchange for over a month now, no closer to an accord than when Nemeth had first requested the entreaty.

What did Rodor possibly have to offer Arthur now that he hadn't already tabled? Did he now have something valuable enough for Arthur to concede those ancient lands and strengthen their weakened alliance? The King of Camelot sighed, sure that there was nothing worthy in it that could make him yield.

He set the letter back on his desk, unopened, dismissing another undesirable proposition that could wait a day or so. He and the knights were patrolling Dinaden's Mount[ii] tomorrow, too near an abandoned Druid camp, and something he really was not looking forward to. All he wanted to think about tonight was what he did not have.

* * *

[i] You Always Surprise Me, by me

[ii] Keys to the Past, by KIMMIKY


	3. Acts of Valor, Acts of Pride

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 3 Acts of Valor, Acts of Pride

It wasn't so much as watching _her_ , but rather watching what was _around_ her for at least a thousand-pace radius, a reasonable and buffered perimeter for them to protect her and stay out of sight. All they knew was that she was traveling south, avoiding villages and townships by staying off the main roads.

Fredrick diverted to the garrison at Chime when they were two days out of Camelot, and wrote to Leon of their status and his speculation of her possible destinations. He also included a strange rumor of Southron raids across the eastern and southern borders that he'd heard while wandering the garrison. Leaving her unprotected had been risky with a possible threat of Southron's lurking at their borders who would have no honor allowing a lone woman safe passage. In all likelihood, they would simply kill her, or worse: imprison her for the most heinous of their offenses. After dispatching his report, he caught up with Erwan, trailing a discrete distance behind the banished citizen.

Yesterday, she almost detected them when a freak spring storm decided to rage for a few hours in the failing light of day, the ground becoming slippery and thick with mud, and Fredrick having lost her tracks in the downpour, had forced them a little closer to her. They were nearly upon her before he realized her positioned beneath a natural rock shelter where large boulders were common, halting their forward progress and hunkering down in another rock shelter only a few hundred paces from her.

The bowman scouted ahead today, having traveled at night to gain ground, and finding no threats on her suspected path, he waited high in a tree until she passed below. It was nearly dusk, and Gwen usually made camp before darkness closed in. There was an area about not far ahead he was sure she'd choose, and smiled to himself when she did.

It was the same for her every night: a small fire would spark, the donkey unbridled, groomed, and fed; a meal prepared, and the eating stuffs cleaned and put away. Then the crying would begin. Several times through the night, they dared ventured for a closer check of her camp to ensure her physical safety and that nothing dangerous had slipped through the perimeter. Sometimes when they were that close, they could hear her weeping, her deep sorrow heard in the stillness of night. Even the nocturnal creatures seemed to cease their calls and foraging in respect to her grief.

Erwan stowed his bow over his shoulder before scampering down the tree as Fredrick came into view, though he was nearly impossible to detect in the failing light.

"The way is clear, and she's making camp."

Fredrick nodded thoughtfully. They were both accustomed to little sleep; trained to function with just a few hours of rest when necessary. Both took the first watch, one patrolled the western and southern perimeter, while the other guarded the east and north. One would sleep after the first watch, while the other continued his patrol. Each morning, they would take turns leaving their camp just before dawn to scout ahead and wait for her to pass. It was a routine they easily fell into, and it gave them something meaningful to do with their time.

Because they were unsure if she'd remain on that southern path, they used birdcalls for communication. If she detoured from her southward route or if something dangerous waited ahead or closed in from behind, the screech of an owl would signal a rendezvous or a call to battle. Today, Fredrick was tracking Gwen from the rear. Her trail was easy enough to follow and his gait remained slow and deliberate as he pulled Erwan's horse alongside his own. It would be his turn to scout ahead tomorrow morning.

Fredrick Dumont was an old soldier. Well, old for a soldier having lived through forty-three winters and three kings, including the one Uther conquered to retake their ancestral kingdom. Few old warriors still served at his age, and fewer lived long enough to retire. Most soldiers died in the name of their kings before ever reaching the age of thirty. The fact that he was still able to call himself a soldier was a testament to either his mettle, his swordsmanship, or just plain luck.

But Fredrick didn't believe in luck. Fate had already paved his path and was leading him by the hand down it, sometimes with him kicking and screaming. From his early years in the army and the many times he should have died but hadn't, from husband to widower who had no heirs, to protecting a once future queen on a forlorn journey, there was a reason why things happened the way they did. There was a purpose for everything, he knew it, and he'd seen it all: the virtuous and the vile. After he'd raged at the injustices he breathed, bled, and fought against, and wept about the unfairness life had dished out to him, he'd always come to terms with whatever reality had left him with, picked himself up, and stumble back down the road he'd been fated to walk.

He thought about this as he stared into the small fire pit surrounded by stacked stones, the flames obscured and unnoticeable from a distance. Why was Guinevere so important for the king to keep her protected in her exile even after her betrayal? The obvious answer was that he still loved her despite her grievous flaw, and she as one of Morgana's bitter enemies, would be at risk of harm from his half-sister or any other opportunist. If anything were to happen to her, it mostly would be the king's fault because he had thrown her out of her home and abandoned her in the first place.

Fredrick shook himself from these thoughts, and smothered the fire pit with dirt, casting himself into complete darkness. The ground was cold and hard, but he stretched out on his back in the shallow hole dug, and covered himself with leaves, branches, anything to stay hidden. He found the sort of comfort that only a seasoned soldier like himself could find in such conditions. His watch was now over, but his mind was not at rest.

Their instructions from Leon were bizarre at first, but they knew it had come from the king himself, and that was enough for them to accept this mission with honor, and without question. They realized that they could be protecting her for a long time, but Leon inferred that the king would keep them retained no matter how long it took.

Everyone who knew the noble couple knew that Guinevere was to be the next Queen, and it was only a matter of time before Arthur married her. By default of Elyan's knighthood, her elevation to a lady of the court, though truly acceptable to a jubilant Arthur, was a scandalous affair not suitable for most of the nobles and some of the knights and soldiers. They made their disapproval of the king's appalling choice of a commoner queen known even while acknowledging the temptation of loving other female servants, or often boasting of their conquests of them. The threat of stocks, or a punishment even worse, conveyed by Leon to his men if the First Knight ever heard of such disrespect aimed at the future queen and his childhood friend again.

Fredrick had always respected Guinevere, though he hadn't known her personally, and was sure she didn't know him or Erwan given the size of the military, the rotation of soldiers around the kingdom, and the constant number of new recruits needed to replenish the army. But her kindness and compassion for everyone no matter their station was already legendary. Her meteoric rise in status after the courtship was made public had never affected her humble nature, and besides, as Fredrick had once said in her defense, she was noble of heart and worthy of the king no matter that she'd just acquired the title of Lady. He echoed Leon's threats and dared anyone else to speak ill of her, at least in his presence.

He didn't believe the rumor of her betrayal, but soon learned the truth of it when Leon approached them with this mission. He was certainly shocked. Some of the knights and soldiers would have been offended to watch over her because of who she was and what she did to their king. But he was a sensible man, very much aware and forgiving of human frailties, flawed himself with many of them. It was one of the reasons Leon had picked him. Fredrick saw it as the hand of Fate.

"Wake up," Erwan whispered, kicking his foot, peering anxiously into the darkness. "We have visitors."

…..

It was pitch black, no moon to provide any form of light, so when Erwan saw two torches bobbing in the distance, his first instinct was to stay hidden and pick them off as they came closer. But not really knowing their numbers, he thought it best to wake Fredrick. By the time he found their own camp and woken the camouflaged Fredrick, the intruders were very nearly upon Guinevere's camp by only a few hundred paces. By the two torches they carried, the sounds they made, Fredrick and Erwan counted at least four bandits. They must have seen her campfire, and broken through their perimeter while Erwan patrolled on the opposite side. One of the torches took a wide turn, making its way around the camp to block Gwen's escape.

The good news was that they were coming closer to Fredrick and Erwan, both cloaked in the darkness, their backs against the trees and daggers at the ready. Fredrick waited for both targets to pass before he sprang forward, a hand going to cover the mouth of the closest bandit while he thrust his dagger just under the ribs, piercing his lungs. The bandit fell without so much as a gasp.

Erwan grabbed the other bandit from behind and dug his dagger in his side, missing the kill spot of the ribs. The bandit yowled in pain, jerking back and sending both men to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Guinevere heard the cry, and sprang to an upright position, eyes frantically searching in the direction of the noise. Fredrick cursed, diving forward and driving his dagger into the eye of the wounded bandit, killing him almost instantly.

Guinevere was on her feet, dagger in one hand and sword in the other, her eyes wide with fear. She saw figures, shapes in the darkness, on both sides of her, then someone screaming a war cry was suddenly before her.

Setting her feet shoulder width apart, and knees slightly bent, she easily dodged a strike from the man with an axe, and answered the sword-strike of the other with a parry from her dagger. They sized up the woman with vicious, confident sneers, circling her. The sword-bearing bandit thrust the weapon forward again, and was surprised as her riposte took her under his blade and skewered his heart with a textbook lunge.

As she turned to face the bandit with the axe, his scream of fury cut short as an arrow blossomed between his eyes. She started in the direction of the archer responsible, still on defense, and was visibly relieved to see that he wasn't another bandit.

"My lady!" Erwan said, rushing towards her. "Are you all right?"

Guinevere, returning her gaze to the bandit with the arrow in his head, was breathing heavily, shaken more than she'd realized. "I'm fine," she replied, turning her attention back to the archer. "That was a fine shot. It's rare to see such accuracy." She watched the two strangers warily, trusting in her instinct of their character. "But I'm not a lady." She'd lost that title, no longer deserving her right to it now.

Fredrick said, smiling, "Then you must be a knight in disguise. Your fighting skills are equal to many I've seen." She giggled with humility and pulled herself to standing, the rush of combat ebbing. "I'm Fredrick Dumont. That runt there's Erwan Caradas, and don't let him fool you. I'd bet he wasn't even _aiming_ for his head."

"Oi!" Erwan protested, flailing his bow at the older scout, but with a twinkle in his eyes. "Does it matter? I mean, I was going for the heart, true, but the wind must have caught it." Erwan winked at Guinevere with a charming smile, then suddenly looked almost terrified for doing so. She was King Arthur's….King Arthur's…what? He didn't know what to think, but he knew that she was still important to the king, and it was best not to get too familiar.

"I beg your pardon, my lady." He suddenly spun on his heels to go find their horses.

"It's all right," she called after him, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor, her breathing almost normal now. She turned to Fredrick. "I'm grateful for your help. I'm Guinevere, but most people call me Gwen." She took care not to reveal her full name. Variations of 'Guinevere' were common enough, but not Leodegrance. She didn't want to attach herself to King Arthur in any way now, not willing to offer any opportunity for the unscrupulous to take advantage of her or their situation if they recognized who she was. "I guess I'm lucky you two were so close by."

Fredrick was a professional soldier trained to think quickly on his feet, especially given all the wars and threats of war, or magical attacks against Camelot during his lifetime alone. He'd wondered what lie he'd have to give her if they were forced to interact sometime along this journey. It was bound to happen, though not as soon as he'd wanted, and they'd need a believable enough lie to preserve their identity. He'd discussed strategy with his fellow soldier so as to corroborate and maintain their cover for a scenario such as this presented itself.

"I'm glad we were, too. It's dangerous country here, especially for a woman traveling alone." He surveyed the two bodies nearby, debating whether to bury them or not. "Okay, maybe _most_ women. You're very good with a sword." He shook his head, turning his attention back to his duty at hand. "We're headed for Essetir, to Gad, a village a couple of leagues southeast of the Feore Mountains." Say just enough to get her to offer up information. That way, he can possibly lead her in the direction he wanted.

"I know of that area. It's a trade route between Odin's and Lot's kingdoms."

Fredrick cocked his eyebrows. "Indeed, my lady." She bristled at the title usage again, but bit back a severe retort. How many times would she have to remind them that she was no one of importance?

Guinevere loved to learn, and absorbed every bit of information she could from her visits to Longstead with their mother, before she had died. They would visit Mary and John a few times a year back then. And now, because of Arthur and his steadfast support, she'd taken it upon herself to increase her knowledge in current events, geography, philosophy, history of kings and queens, vassals and lordships, grain and harvest yields, annual water reports, and court protocol for royals. Between the royal library and lessons with Arthur—and sometimes Merlin—she had access to whatever information they deemed important that a future queen should know. She'd had many rewarding and wonderful conversations with Geoffrey.

Arthur and his knights privately trained her with the sword, the bow and the crossbow, the staff and quarterstaff. But Arthur drew the line at most other blunt and cleaving weaponry, citing those might turn her into a bloodthirsty warrior queen insistent on leading a charge into battle. He had been preparing her for her role as queen, but had just as much faith and confidence in the sublime nobility she naturally possessed. It was her most important asset to defend the realm, and one in which he could not improve upon.

"My destination is Longstead," she said humbly. "I'd visited there when I was younger and thought it would be a fine place to settle." She played down her intellect and skills, sheathing her sword and gathering the reins of the donkey. "It's just over a day's journey from here."

"That's on our way," Erwan stated, coming toward them with both their horses, and having recovered from his earlier inappropriate gesture. "We could accompany you there."

"No. I would only slow you down."

Erwan was persistent. "We'll take one of these bandit's horses. They're tethered just beyond the tree line there. Besides, they won't be needing them."

"Isn't that still stealing?" Gwen asked, an eyebrow perked, and her lips thinned in disapproval. She noticed the brand on their horses' hindquarters, recognizing them as one of Cenred's northern lordships that had fought against Arthur, another bit of knowledge she'd learned from her tutelage. Her hackles rose a little, nonetheless. Cenred was an enemy who'd tried twice to overthrow Camelot, and even though it was possible that not all of Essetir's citizens had agreed with or taken part in his battles or pledged their support, she had to believe that by their act of gallantry and display of valor to help her that they had been one of those who had opposed.

"Let's call it an equitable trade for trying to kill you, shall we?" She smiled at that, but still wasn't sure that it was the right thing to do.

"Child," Fredrick added in his best fatherly voice, though sincere he was. He feared the four bandits as Southron advance scouts, and their leader would be expecting them to return. "You've proven you can take care of yourself, but there's safety in numbers. I'd feel a lot better if you'd allow us to escort you. I assure you, my lady. We mean you no harm."

Guinevere wished for companionship more than she'd realized after having lost it so quickly, the donkey her only confidant. Last night she had scratched behind its ears and remembered the time when Arthur was victim to a goblin's mischief. He had sat humiliated and dejected on the floor in his chambers, large donkey ears twitching nervously at every sound. And when he spoke, only a bray of distress came out as he tried to explain what had happened. Gwen and Merlin had laughed at his expense, though not in his presence, at how pitiful he'd looked and panicked he must have felt. She giggled about it last night, the memory enveloping her like Arthur's caress used to. And then she suddenly cried. She missed him with all her heart, knowing that she would have no more memories to build upon like that again with the man she loved.

Only now, she didn't want to risk exposing any of her secrets or let slip who she really was to these strangers. What she'd done to a king, she was ashamed, and had to keep that betrayal and guilt close to her heart.

"Lady Gwen," Fredrick added. She rolled her eyes, and huffed. "These men might belong to a larger raiding party. I implore you. Let us get you to Longstead safely. We ask for nothing in return. I swear on my honor."

"As do I," Erwan added.

Guinevere believed them, and though she no longer trusted her judgement, her instincts on character was as true as ever. They reminded her of the Round Table knights in their chivalry, their protectiveness, and so she decided to accept their generosity and companionship. Besides, they were right about the safety factor, and it would only be for a day and a half. What harm would it be?

"Very well, and thank you." She held out her arm, each grasping it in the warrior way with a smile and a nod. "But I'll not take the horse. We'll just have to travel at my pace."

"Fair enough," Fredrick chuckled. "To Longstead then."

…

Arthur couldn't sleep, and slowly rose from the warmth and comfort of his bed, the floor cold and hard under his bare feet, the fire in the hearth nearly extinguished. He placed a few logs on it, and stoked it gently as it flickered back to life and warmed him. They would be leaving for Dinaden's Mount* at dawn, still hours away, but sleep was evading him once again.

The ever-present ache of loss reigned within, and as great as her assault against him, Arthur had never experienced such raw emotions as this. When he held court, he remained regal, but detached. When he was in council, he was firm and impatient. When he was on a hunt, his aim was true, though he took every opportunity to retreat from the main camp in search of solitude, if only for a little while. When he trained with his knights, he was merciless and unforgiving, drilling them to perfection and exhaustion. When he wasn't distracted with regal matters, he was holed up in his chambers with strict orders not to be disturbed.

He crossed to the desk in front of the window, stretching the kinks out of his neck and sat, his head leaning against the back of the chair. He had had that dream again. The one with Guinevere standing in the throne room, pleading with him not to send her away, her face streaked with tears. He hated it when she cried, almost as much as when she was angry with him about something he'd done. She had seemed so confused, genuinely perplexed by her actions and she couldn't give reason why she had kissed Lancelot. In this dream, he'd changed his mind, forgiven her, and held her in his arms. Oh, how he wished he could have done that, but the law and his pride would not permit it. Other times, the dream played out nearly the same as it had happened, but ended with her execution. Those ones shook him awake with tremors and cold sweats. Well, at least tonight's wasn't that other dreadful dream about drowning either. But the eve was not yet over.

Arthur picked up the unopened parchment from Nemeth, and broke the seal, unrolling it to find two separate missives, one from its king, and one from his daughter. He began with King Rodor's, his eyes widening in disbelief the more he read, his mouth dropping open. He read it again, then set it aside, his mind reeling at what the king had proposed to seal the treaty of Gedref. He then picked up the letter from his daughter, Princess Mithian, and read it slowly, careful not to misinterpret the meaning of her words. She was agreeable with her father's offer, and looked forward to meeting him, that is, if he was agreeable to meeting her.

It was a marriage proposal not uncommon between royal houses, a tactic not anticipated by Arthur, and the furthest thing from his mind because he'd already chosen a queen, though she wasn't present to serve that role now. It was far too soon for Arthur to even consider another wife… Wasn't it?

He had lost Guinevere, and there was no coming back from that. Nearly a week now she'd been gone, the pain no less than the day before. He missed her. He hated her. No. That wasn't true. He hated what she'd done, but he stilled loved her, and he'd been asking himself how that could still be so since the day it all began.

"Guinevere." Even saying her name hurt. He reached for the place where her white handkerchief would have been had he still carried it. He had believed they had been happy, that Guinevere had loved him, and despite his flaws, he thought he'd been man enough to keep her. Sure, the demands of the kingdom kept them apart most times, especially in the early days of their courtship, if one could call it that. Sometimes days had passed before he would even glimpse her, and he'd missed her to his very core, and then making up for his absence with some small token of his affection. Her love had given him strength through some of his darkest moments, pulling him up from despair, or his doubt of his own worthiness, to rein in his ire. She was the calm to his storm, the light to his dark. He had cherished the very air that she breathed.

Now he saw his love for her as a weakness, thoughts of her interrupting his reason, or plaguing his dreams. He had even felt his face wet with tears he hadn't known he'd shed a few times. He'd placed so much of himself in her that now he felt adrift, alone, no longer anchored to the presence that had once given him purpose.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, and exhaled a longsuffering sigh. What was best for Camelot? He knew the answer to that question before he'd even thought it. There were six townships and villages and three subordinating vassals in Gedref with two lordships maintaining order. His decision would have far reaching consequences no matter the outcome. If territorial agreements dissolved with disfavor, their already weakened alliance could possibly dissolve, invariably raising strife and contention, much as it had with Caerleon over Everwick.* If he accepted the accord, it would secure an agreement of peace for many years for both kingdoms. It would mean a lifetime commitment for him in more ways than one.

So he had purpose, a kingdom to run, the future of Camelot to consider. With the burdensome decision made, a broken heart, and a farewell to his once beloved on his lips, he picked up the quill and a fresh piece of parchment to draft his replies to both Rodor and Mithian. His hand was shaking a little, the letters on the page not the fine script befitting his years of practice and education, so he crumpled up the parchment, and started over with another one.

It may seem impetuous to some, a relief to others, and maybe even an act of betrayal to Guinevere, but he would accept Mithian's hand in marriage, do what's best for Camelot even at the expense of his own happiness.

…

* "Keys to the Past," by KIMMIKY


	4. Requiem of the Forgotten

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 4 Requiem of the Forgotten

If lamenting over the betrayal and loss of Guinevere hadn't been enough to shatter his self-worth and self-esteem, something else darker and far more sinister than her assault against Arthur's dignity and regard troubled him beyond sleep, as it had in nightmares ever since he was fifteen years old.

It happened every time there was something to do with Druids, an age-old memory triggered his conscious like an arrow piercing flesh and bloodying him in waves of guilt, doubt, and self-loathing. It struck mostly in terrifying nightmares of red slaughter, slashes of chaos, and thunderous destruction. The screaming was the worst, screeches of death howling at his soul.

And then there were the drowning dreams, the water closing inexorably over his head and turning his world waveringly mute, a silent appeal hovering on his lips as he fought for another breath. He'd frightened Guinevere once, having fallen asleep in each other's arms fully clothed and content in her home, that evening before his quest to find the Cup of Life, and waking from the nightmare gulping frantically for air, hands going instinctively to his throat.

She had never seen his eyes so haunted and so frightened before, and her heart felt for him when he came to himself, the tears involuntarily starting to fall. He trembled like a frightened child in the security of her arms, the sound of her voice sweet comfort to him. It was the first time he'd ever received such a consoling embrace after one of those ordeals. He cherished that moment in the midst of his grief.

But he couldn't, or wouldn't, tell her what his subconscious had brought forth. He simply assured her that it had something to do with a battle long ago, a terrible battle that plagued him in his dreams, though he chose not to add that last part. And from the dubious, yet concerned look on her face, he was sure she'd only half believed him anyway.

The prince was expected to start training with a wooden sword as soon as he could hold it, which was not long after his fourth birthday; concepts of war were drilled into him at eight whilst receiving education in the governance of his kingdom and the politics of other kingdoms with Geoffrey in the Royal Library.

Happy to be out of the library most of the time now, but not so sure it was any better squiring to the battle-hardened and uncompromising Sir Lucan who was quick with criticism and nearly void of praise. Of all the knights his father had to choose, why did it have to be the knight with a reputation of antagonistic behavior toward, well…everyone? Except the king, of course. Everyone else was beneath him, and apparently, that also included the 10-year old heir to the throne.

Arthur had to work twice as hard as the other squires to gain some modicum of approval from Sir Lucan, though he still managed top marks for his offensive and defensive strategy in the field despite so many other unacknowledged accomplishments—at least in the eyes of an eleven-year-old prince. As an adult, he could look back and recognize the strategy his father had employed in that respect. Sir Lucan's attitude had been yet another aspect of his training. A subtle one on how to deal with personalities of the most abrasive kind with equanimity.

It came as no surprise when he earned his knighthood at thirteen, and besting his father by a year, appointed commander of the army at fifteen to put into practice his military leadership skills. Respect from the soldiers, commanders, and his father had still to be earned.

He had no reason to believe this raid would be any different than the other two effective operations he'd led earlier that year and one very successful patrol searching for a rogue sorcerer. Granted they were small-scale campaigns to protect a few villages from outlaws and bandits, but Arthur was still proud of his accomplishments, and the respect he'd received from the men that mattered most didn't hurt his pride and confidence either. He naïvely believed that they would follow him now without question. That he held their tethers and could direct them at will.

He was wrong.

His first ever raid against a magical community had quickly dissolved from a well-organized incursion of arrest and detain to a blood-drenched massacre in only a matter of minutes, his shouts and orders unheeded as the bloodlust and battle frenzy raged through his men. The forty or so Druids scattered with frenetic energy between their tents and throughout the campsite, screaming in terror, and fleeing into the wood. But there was no safety there either, the trees merely hindering their flight, not aiding their desire to hide.

Soldiers hacked relentless, viciously; knights fired crossbows indiscriminately from horseback at any target, young, old, hale, sick, man or woman, inciting the rest of them from their initial shock into the full mettle of a berserker. This wasn't a battle. It was a massacre.

The Druids weren't armed, they didn't fight back, not even with magic. Arthur couldn't even see anything that could be construed as a makeshift weapon. And the children, three, maybe four of them, were dragged from the clinging arms of loved ones and thrown mercilessly into a well, their screams and cries cutting through to Arthur's core with sheer nauseating horror.

He'd lost control spectacularly, without mercy to his conscience or the Druids. He panicked so after, never having told Lucan or anyone else that he retched upon his horse, hunched over the side, tears stinging his blood-shot eyes. His throat had been sore for a week from the burning acid of bile, and from the raw screaming at his men to stand down and for the commanders to assist in regaining control.

He would never discover that the king had given specific orders to certain captains to spare no one no matter what his son commanded. Yet another lesson Uther had deemed necessary for the prince. No matter the king's intentions, that day set the catalyst for the crumbling of Arthur's belief in himself and his worth. He desperately sought his father's approval in all that he did from that day forward.

Now the king, as he and his knights rested while on patrol, the men heartily tossed water skins between themselves, jovially avoiding the parched Elyan each time he reached for them. Arthur, though somewhat amused by the antics of his brave knights, had been dominated by thoughts of Guinevere before he realized those frightful Druid ruins were closer than expected. Merlin called it a shrine, sacred grounds just as Arthur ordered everyone to pack up and leave, Merlin's warnings not necessary for him in that fateful place.

But it was too late for Elyan, having disturbed the shrine by simply quenching his thirst with water from that same cursed well those children were thrown in. The spirit of a Druid boy drowned in the deep, once sacred water by one of Arthur's uncontrollable soldiers was released with a vengeful intent only to kill the one responsible. No one had noticed the dark knight's bizarre behavior upon their return to Camelot, or better yet, had assumed it was due to the banishment of his sister. All except Merlin, and even he had taken time to figure the reasons.

Failing on two attempts, Elyan tried to assassinate the cold-hearted butcher responsible for the deaths of innocent children, even after being possessed by the spirit. He then fled to the false safety of the ruins that trapped the soul of the Druid child.

His friend had come closer to succeeding than Arthur liked to admit, his distraction manifesting as a lack of alertness that could have proved disastrous. And in the back of his mind **,** a small voice kept reiterating that if Guinevere had been there, Elyan's irrational behavior would have been spotted even sooner. It left him feeling hollow, especially with the reluctant orders to kill her brother on sight. That order seemed to delight Agravaine, a false sense of grievance in his voice, certain Elyan's actions were that of revenge. Elyan's comrades did not believe that **,** but couldn't ignore the order, the assault against the king punishable by death. Under duress, their reluctant search for him began.

Of course, Merlin and Gaius were almost always of a different opinion and this time was no different. It was as if they looked on from some obscure corner offering an angle of view that allowed them to notice details no one else could see. Could they be right in their belief that the only way to save Elyan was to appease the vengeful spirit that possessed him?

Merlin had almost lit up with hope until they had realized the only way to do that was if the perpetrator, believed to be Uther, made amends with it and atoned for the injustice wrought against it. Since Uther was dead, Elyan was considered doomed. Arthur hadn't the nerve to confess when he saw that look of disappointment flash across his servant's and physician's faces. He felt like a coward for different reasons this time.

His father would have dismissed it as nonsense and pursued the guilty to his death. But Arthur had seen it with his own eyes: Elyan, drenched in water that spewed unnaturally from his pores and pooled at his feet. And when he had spoken of vengeance, it was with a voice of a child, so eerie and frightful that the hairs on the back of Arthur's neck stood at attention. His conscience would not let him ignore what had so plainly played out before him, and he believed what Gaius and Merlin told him, though he didn't think his sin could ever be forgiven in order to appease this vengeful spirit. But if there was the merest chance that Elyan might be saved, _Guinevere's brother_ could be saved, he had to try.

He'd snuck out thinking it would be easier somehow to confront the horror without witnesses to his vulnerability. He hadn't counted on being followed, but should have guessed it. Merlin had ever been his shadow. When it came right down to the rub he was glad the man was there as a neutral observer.

Having assumed Uther was responsible for the horror, it stunned Merlin when Arthur fell to his knees and arms stretched out in submissive surrender to the possessed and water-drenched knight. Taking onus, he gave a tearful account of the events, confessing his part in the massacre, for losing control of his men, for hiding his own act of cowardice. His voice trembled as he vowed a new day to treat the Druids with dignity and respect as long as he was king. He meant this like nothing else before it.

"I am truly sorry for what happened to you," he choked out, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with tears.

Arthur couldn't stop the fearful gasps that escaped his lips, feeling all of fifteen years old again, as Elyan approached him, eyes of glassy vengeance, but then gently took the king by his shoulders and guided him to his feet, embracing him and then forgiving him in the voice of the child. Elyan, expelling ethereal remains from his mouth, collapsed upon Arthur's chest like one of those dolls Morgana used to play with, then discarded after becoming bored. The king held his unconscious friend in a shuddering embrace. It had been a release of sorts for him, too, the unconscious burden he had carried from that day had been somehow lifted and flown away.

Merlin appeared at Arthur's side in an instant, startling the king from his past, and helped support the dead weight of the knight. They moved quickly out of the ruined camp and made their own half a league away.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Merlin risked asking, draping a blanket around the now sleeping knight.

Arthur only shook his head, his eyes never leaving Elyan, his face limned by the firelight. The weary king wondered if he would now be granted the peacefulness of slumber such as that if he ever had any more dealings with Druids. He thought on the feeling from earlier, as of a weight being removed, and thought perhaps that he might.

…

Traveling some days were better than others. If conditions were favorable, they were fortunate to cover sixteen kilometers a day. On horseback, a trip to the southeastern border would normally take six days from the castle gates, traveling a comfortable thirty-two kilometers a day. However, weather, darkness, and terrain slowed their progress significantly. Along with a donkey and cart, it took them six days just to reach the foothills south of the Ridge, and another two days to reach the lower woodlands of Tancred. Eluding people became a task maneuvering the less traveled paths. Frustration set in as Guinevere pondered these unforeseen conditions that slowed and hindered her exodus out of the realm. It was at this point that she estimated it could take another four days to reach Longstead.

Erwan insisted Gwen ride his horse whilst the younger soldier led the donkey beside her. It was Fredrick's turn to scout ahead, and they hadn't seen him all day, though he'd promised to return with fresh game for their evening meal. Still, he had warned that the men who attacked Guinevere were more than likely advance scouts from a much larger group, and for them to stay vigilant. But dusk was almost upon them, and there was no sign of the old scout even as they found a safe spot to rest for the night.

Their campsite was already set up when the birdcall of the lark came—Fredrick didn't want to get skewered by the sharpshooting, trigger-happy, bowman by accident—and he finally appeared with a pheasant, two rabbits, and a look of triumph on his face. Added to a block of hard cheese and two remaining apples from Gwen, it made a hearty and satisfying meal for the trio. They settled into comfortable conversation around the fire pit before Erwan took first watch, happy not having to patrol the perimeter so far away now.

"My niece wants to marry some bloke with his head in the clouds," Fredrick was saying, answering Gwen's question of their destination, and sharpening his knife on a wet stone. "Thinks he's good enough to get into Lot's army as a knight." This story was true, though it had happened years ago when Uther was king. Fredrick had to work hard at keeping the lies and tenses straight now that details were being sought.

"It's worthy to serve the king," Guinevere said, sitting upon her bedroll, a blanket draped around her shoulders. "It's an honorable profession. Besides, Lot doesn't hold to the tradition that only nobility breeds knights." Neither did Arthur, her own brother was proof of that. Guinevere groaned inwardly. Why did everything have to come back to Arthur; remind her of him?

"He's only 16, and has yet to finish squiring," said Fredrick.

"Not everyone progresses the way we sometimes want or expect them to, though Arthur was…knighted at…15." Her voice trailed off. It was there again. All her thoughts seemed centered on the man she had left behind, had been told to leave behind. Her eyes were wide, glassy and doe-like and she bit her lip realizing that such familiarity with monarchy opened up curious questions she just wasn't ready to answer.

"Arthur?" Fredrick asked, playing his part. "The king of Camelot?" He knew as much about their king as anyone in Camelot, being there when the boy was made commander of the army, though he had rarely been assigned to patrols or missions with the young prince back then.

"Was he now?" Erwan asked at the same time, feigning surprise and trying to look a little impressed.

"Um, I mean…well." Her eyes glazed over. "Um…that's-that's what I heard…once." She looked down, then at the fire, anywhere but at the two men, fumbling with the blanket between her fingers. She wanted to pull it over her head and melt into the darkness. Fredrick and Erwan shared a knowing glance, fighting to keep the smiles to themselves. They shouldn't be so cruel. They should just tell her who they were.

"I've heard a lot about Camelot's king," Fredrick put in, allowing her a chance to collect her dignity. "It's said he's the best warrior in all the land, a great strategist and military commander. Got brains, that one."

"He's a great king," she softly agreed, choking back the lump in her throat. "Fair and just." Her chest constricted from the pain in her heart, truly believing that she deserved his judgment, that it _was_ fair and just considering what she had done to him. She commanded the tears not to fall, though the ache in her chest left her heaving a little harder than she'd wanted.

He saw sadness draw into her face, hurt in her eyes, her fragile heart struggling to control her emotions. These were feelings Fredrick knew quite well from the loss of someone loved. He knew their story well enough, of a royal who loved a servant, of a man scorned by his beloved, of a king exiling his citizen, and he felt for her.

"Where are you from, my lady?" he asked, hoping she'd anticipated the question and would construe it as purely innocent enquiry asked amongst strangers getting to know one another. To not ask it would incite more questions, make them seem more suspicious than they needed. It didn't stop him from wishing he hadn't asked as soon as he saw her face.

If Guinevere could have looked any more broken, it was then. It was only a matter of time before they would ask that question, and she'd thought long and hard on how to respond. She liked these men, little though she knew of them. She even instinctively trusted them on some level. But she wasn't ready to entrust them with her shame. She'd thought herself prepared. Had built up an entirely fictional but believable back story based on the origins of the people she knew. Small villages, border towns, her parent's dying together from the illness in the water a few years ago instead of her father recovering from it. A whole other life.

When it came down to the question itself being asked out of the blue, she hadn't remembered any of it. All she could manage on the spur of the moment was a halfhearted "Nowhere." She pulled the blanket tighter, a cloud of depression covering her, and laid down, clearly done with the question and answer session for tonight. "I'll take next watch."

She hoped her abruptness would forestall them, stop the questions altogether. They would be in Longstead in a few more days, and she wouldn't have to answer to anyone again. Well, except to Mary and John. But they…they would be more sympathetic. They knew well the follies and frailties of the human heart and wouldn't judge. She was not a former servant turned lady with an eye on the throne to them. She was merely Gwen, a woman just a few years out of girlhood and confused as to what exactly had happened. Still, there would be an awkward stage of them only trying to mean well and not making it any easier.

…..

Leon approached the king, his footfalls echoing in the now empty council chamber, a rolled parchment in his hand. "Sire," he said. "A report from Fredrick."

Arthur drew in a breath as he leaned back in his chair. It had only been a week now, since her departure. But the pain of her betrayal and absence was still fresh, raw. Would he ever be rid of the hurt and emptiness in his heart? He supposed not, and that he'd better get used to this, getting updates on Guinevere even though he wanted nothing more than to forget about her. Perhaps he felt such self-punishment necessary on some level, a deserved stab to remind him he had been unable to adequately hold her affections.

Leon handed the letter to Arthur, but the king eyed it with a bit of misery, as if just looking at it caused pain so briefly before schooling his expression with indifference. He was marrying Mithian now, and it would dishonor her with thoughts of another. He scratched something on the parchment in front of him as if it needed to be written that instance else the thought would get lost.

"Sire?" Leon stepped a little closer to the king.

"Is she safe?" It was clipped, dispassionate. He had to tell himself sternly that he didn't need the details, every nuance, every decision she made. That part of his life was over.

"Yes," Leon answered, a bit confused. "Fredrick believes she's heading for—"

"I don't want to know," Arthur said, tearing his eyes away from the paper he wasn't really seeing, and finally looking at Leon. "From now on, keep it to yourself, and only inform me if it speaks of dire circumstances." He placed his quill on the table and turned his attention back to the pile of parchments. "It's better this way."

Leon assumed he understood his meaning, unaware of his king's true connotation and intentions, and nodded. He cleared his throat. "It may interest you, Sire, that he confirms our early reports of Southrons in the southwest borders of Escetir."

"As long as they remain there, I really don't care, Leon. Let Lot deal with them." From his own network of spies and alliances, Arthur was aware of the increase of Southron mercenaries moving north in the neighboring kingdom. They hadn't crossed the border, so all he could do was observe, wait, and pray that they didn't have intentions for Camelot.

Leon was startled, worried at Arthur's growing detachment. "But shouldn't we at least increase the regiments at Meldreth and Hawthorne? The border towns and villages may require protection. We'll need to replenish the garrisons."

Arthur sighed. "Of course." He was grateful for his second-in-command of many years, a knight of his choosing, not his father's. Leon was as skilled with military strategy and movements as he, and he was thankful for one strong enough to question his decisions, or lack thereof, and pull him up on any shortsightedness. "Send one hundred troops in stages, and dispatch a couple of scouts to our southeast border for any sightings as far as the Ridge and the woodlands of Tancred. Just to be safe."

"Yes, my lord. Very good."

"Leon," Arthur dropped the parchment, laced his fingers, and looked at the knight squarely. "Thank you. I trust you'll continue to offer advice on other matters as the need arises. As you know, I'm…a little distracted. I may need your help."

"Of course, Arthur. You're more than just my king. You're my friend. I hope you know that you're not alone."

Arthur bobbed his head with appreciation, his lips pressed in a thin smile. His father had been wrong. He'd surrounded himself with people he trusted, in which he valued their opinions. To rule alone was to rule in fear, and he believed his father never understood that.

…...

It was easy to set surveillance on Agravaine for several reasons.

One, as advisor and uncle to King Arthur, Merlin knew exactly where he was a good deal of the time, and so searching his quarters during a council meeting or when he was on patrol or taking care of some other courtly matter was somewhat safe, unless his manservant happened to be around. Which he had been the last three times Merlin attempted to enter Lord Agravaine's quarters, and each time Merlin was lucky enough to lie convincingly about why he was there. When he finally had been able to search, the only notable thing he found was that the incriminating books on magic he discovered last month had been removed, no doubt destroyed, or under lock and key somewhere other than his chambers.

Two, Agravaine spent a curious amount of time with a few of the household servants, and sometimes for only a few moments that, to Merlin, looked suspiciously like a covert exchange of information. And these were places that would not seem unusual for Merlin to be if Agravaine happened to spot him.

Most importantly though, Merlin discovered Agravaine had more eyes than he'd ever suspected, a stable hand (assistant to the marshal actually), a scullery maid, a poulter, and even a few castle guards, and that put the warlock on high alert. Perhaps they were not all as he assumed, he could be complaining about the accommodations of his room, or for his horse, or ordering a different bird for his dinner. But the frequency of such 'accidental' meetings convinced Merlin otherwise.

Over the course of two days, he hid, sought, and evaded Agravaine and his spies only to realize that he had gotten no closer to finding anything to unravel the message from Lancelot. It was frustrating him to near the edge, and he had to work doubly hard to make sure it didn't bleed into to his normal demeanor.

Only one other thing was certain from all of this: he would have to do something about all of them, Agravaine's network of spies, enemies within the citadel. Between Arthur, Gaius, and the machinations of the traitorous lord, he didn't know how he would exactly accomplish that. Just that if he were ever to sleep moderately easy again, it would need to be done soon.

It was just as Fredrick predicted, the friends of the advanced scouts they'd killed five days ago had come looking for their overdue men. They'd found their shallow graves and then the poorly obscured tracks leading right back to Gwen's party. There were ten Southrons that charged, but Fredrick had prepared them for an attack, practicing with Gwen and Erwan as often as they could, drills to stay alert and sharp.

Gwen noticed something familiar in their fighting style, in how they wielded their swords and the elegance of their footwork, of Erwan's precision felling three mercenaries with his arrows before engaging them with a sword. And she discerned between her own opponents how they fought like professional soldiers, defeating their foes easily in a deadly rhythm akin to training in the same techniques by the same person. Like Camelot knights actually, especially with that high parry Fredrick executed before delivering a lethal slash across the midsection of a mercenary in one fluid movement, and then turning just in time to thrust his sword into the ribs of another attempting to flank him. Classic Arthur moves.

And really, as she thought about it later, how many people "just happened to be in the area" where she was attacked by those advanced scouts so far off the beaten roads? Most people would have joined the mercenaries just to save their own skin, some would have looked the other way, and others would have fled the scene altogether. Few would be brave enough to stand and fight against them as Fredrick and Erwan had.

She didn't know what it meant, why they were there, but she decided not to say anything, not to jump to conclusions and confront them. They owed her nothing, and she would leave it up to them to be truthful with her if they chose to be. If she turned out to be wrong, well, she was just as guilty holding onto her secrets, too.


	5. Twists of Fate

Once again, KIMMIKY comes to the rescue with sound and funny advice to straighten out the plot. It was my turn to bombard her with frantic emails at all hours, and I'd like to thank her for her patience and for listening. Thanks, KIMMIKY! Don't know what I'd do without you!

Unfortunately, I still don't own Merlin. It's the brainchild of BBC, Fremantle, and Shine, and I'm not getting anything out of this except the satisfaction of fixing plot holes that they didn't.

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 5 Twists of Fate

The high priestess was nowhere to be seen. The once noble and beautiful woman, someone he had denied help and compassion, consigned herself to darkness for nearly three years now; insanity and hate etched in her mind and heart. Merlin felt partly responsible for her cruel deal of fate. But still, he couldn't ignore her choice to walk this path either.

Could it all have been different if he hadn't denied her? Hadn't listened so ardently to the advice of an admittedly older and wiser creature than he, but one with an ultimate goal that he couldn't deny had also been more selfish in the past? It was no use, such questions would have to remain unanswered. What was done was in the past and couldn't be undone. He would just have to hope he could steer them from this rocky shore he had helped to shape and into calmer waters.

He went as Emrys, knowing that his presence would be more threatening to Morgana than that of his real self as Merlin if or when she returned. With a wave of his hand and a flash of gold, the rickety door opened.

The stench was incredible, decay made the air sour and poisonous, foul. Dark and dank, her hovel triggered the same feelings every time he entered it: dread, anxiety, guilt. He tramped them down firmly. They would hinder him if he couldn't keep a grip on them.

A constant dripping of water from an unknown source made the floor soggy and wet, absorbing his steps as he crept about. Numerous jars and pots, some with dead creatures in various stages of decay littered the shelves. Upon a closer look, some of the creatures appeared to be alive. Cobwebs and dust was everywhere. It was a pitiful display, a miserable decline from the comfort and glamour of the chambers within Camelot, of Uther's pampered ward. He had no cause for hope, but if there was a chance of discovering anything about the bracelet, it would be within these appalling walls.

Despite knowing it might be a long shot he looked everywhere, used his magic as feelers in the places he couldn't see. The rows of books against the north wall caught his eye. Most were magical, a few were contemporary, small reminders that she was once a part of the world of mortals. He lifted a tome with aged, bony hands, scanning them with lightning speed, only stopping at spells and incantations meant to cast love enchantments on objects or people. Nothing in the first, or the second book of magic. The third he couldn't even look at so dark was the presence hovering within its creased pages. He skipped it completely, not wanting to touch it unless the others held nothing of worth.

Then the pages of the fourth tome stopped when the words gástlufe onsang screamed out at him, a love enchantment of the soul, one that awakened deep and buried feelings long lost and forgotten. That would fit, perhaps far too perfectly, Gwen having once cared for Lancelot, maybe even loved, but so far from being rekindled because of her true love for Arthur that Morgana would have needed something powerful to arouse her desire once again for the knight.

Emrys closed his eyes, his lips thinned with anguish, a thin stream of breath snaking through as he tried and failed to exhale all his pain for his friends on that tiny river of air. Of course Gwen would never have betrayed Arthur on her own accord, he knew that, and he felt ashamed for not fighting harder for her honor now. He should have realized it sooner. It was not in her character to do such a thing, and he should have convinced Arthur that something was wrong. And even more heartbreaking for Merlin was that he knew Gwen's sorrow and distress over what she'd done was the only thing powerful enough to break the spell's hold on her.

He'd known Lancelot was a Shade, so why did he never think that Gwen was the target Morgana sought to exploit, to destroy? Emrys paled even more if that were possible, knowing that Gwen may never forgive them for abandoning her, for their lack of faith in her. Or whether Arthur would ever forgive himself for casting her out the very first and only time she'd deeply wounded him.

He could understand Arthur's stance, barely; could understand that his heart had taken a beating and the initial betrayal he had felt would have swamped his intellect. It was in his character to act first and ask questions later. And he couldn't deny the evidence of what he'd seen. No. It was just another excuse to justify the king's actions. Arthur maybe should have questioned it deeper, but Merlin had withheld the facts, knew what Lancelot was and still hadn't looked any closer himself. This was his fault.

Still, he needed to find the bracelet before he dared say anything to Arthur.

He made his way back slowly, painfully, and not just from his aching, eighty-year-old joints, but from the knowledge of his failure to keep them safe. His thoughts remained fixed all through his transformation back to his younger self, all through the castle and into his shared chambers.

"Gaius," Merlin asked, stirring the broth in front of him. "What do you know of bracelets?"

"Bracelets Merlin? It's a piece of jewelry worn by women." He said it with a touch of irritation, knowing that was not the answer Merlin was seeking. But he also knew that Merlin was leading up to something that he probably didn't want to know about. Something most likely magical in nature by his almost furtive look and the distraction he'd been projecting all afternoon.

" _I know_ , Gaius," he stressed with so much exasperation that Gaius was sure the air pressure in the room dropped, causing discomfort in his ears. Perhaps it was just his imagination since he didn't see the tale tell flash of gold in the warlock's eyes. "It's just that Lancelot said something about a bracelet. Before he…died…again."

"Merlin, what are you talking about? You've been wandering the castle for weeks ever since Gwen's banishment looking like it was the end of the world. What aren't you telling me?" Perhaps now he would get the details of what his adoptive son had been doing. It worried him that the man didn't confide as much as he used to. Had seemed to take his kidnapping those few weeks ago as a sign that he needed to do everything alone once more. He'd become ever more sneaky.

"Is there a chance that Gwen was under an enchantment when she kissed Lancelot?"

"There's always that chance, and it would explain her behavior. But what evidence do you have? You can't go to the king without it. It may give him false hope. Or worse, you may find yourself with an even bigger problem if he doesn't believe you. He's forbade any of us to ever mention her name in his presence."

"Which proves he still loves her." He sounded almost petulant, offended that the king would rather suffer in his loss than admit how he truly felt and do the humbling thing to rectify it.

"That may be so, but it doesn't change the facts as they stand now."

"I'd spent so little time with her before the tournament," he lamented. "I don't even recall her wearing any jewelry. But if she had somehow come into a bracelet, could it have been spelled?"

"It is likely. Small objects easily concealed are often used for enchantments. Most of the time they are so innocuous that no one would ever suspect. Do you think that what Lancelot spoke of was such an object?"

"I don't know. I think so. I found a very powerful spell at Morgana's hovel."

Gaius was aghast. "Merlin! What if you had been caught?! How many times must I tell you that you must protect your identity?"

He sighed. He probably shouldn't mention he'd even managed to break into Gwen's boarded up home, spelling the nails and planks to quietly unsecure themselves to slip through the back door. With a burn-less flame in the palm of his hand, he'd searched the abandoned house, once full of warmth and hope, now as cold and hollow as the caverns beneath the citadel. There were many fond memories here, and some that made his chest constrict with guilt.

He hadn't found nor had he sensed anything of a magical nature in the empty house. And with this last ray of hope fading, he'd turned to leave, but not before he'd whispered a spell to lift the layer of dust that had covered every surface, gathering it into a cloud and dispersing it into nothingness. Gwen would be back, he was sure, and this was not the state he'd want her to find it. He would keep it for her. That was the least he could do for her.

"I was disguised as Emrys," he said with a sad smile coming back to the present and the waiting visage of Gaius. "She doesn't seem to think straight when I'm him, seems unsettled. Besides, she wasn't there and I can take care of myself."

"I know that, my boy. It's just that I worry for you. You carry the burdens of so much on your young shoulders that sometimes you become reckless."

"I know. I'm sorry I worry you." They fell silent, Gaius eyeing him fondly as he stirred the broth.

"Did you find anything else?"

"Just that Agravaine has his own network of spies here in Camelot. I've got to warn Arthur somehow. And I'm sure he knows something about that bracelet. I saw him speaking to Lancelot a few hours before he brought Arthur to the empty council chambers. It was too much of a coincidence and I just wish I knew some way of getting it out of him. Without exposing my magic." He said the last rather quickly at the look his guardian gave him anticipating the cautions he knew had been coming.

"Merlin, whatever is going on in that head of yours, don't. If Arthur and Gwen are meant to be together, then things will sort itself out with time."

"I hope for that sooner than later. He's making life difficult for all of us because of his own grief." Gaius couldn't help but concur. Arthur's mood with everyone had taken a rather steep downturn and life had indeed become difficult around the heartbroken ruler.

…

Guinevere made it clear that she didn't want their pity, just a temporary place to stay until she was able to secure a job and find her own home. Mary and John found it hard to comply, they having known Gwen since she was a little girl, and that was who they saw when she had come into their care. Especially as she carried that same aura of loss as she had then.

It had been two weeks since her arrival, and had already become known as the best seamstress in the area, mending and sewing whatever she could. It wasn't enough to sustain her, these people not having the means for the fancy cloth or stitching that the castle residents were used to. It was all basic seams and small repairs or re-working something to fit a smaller sibling, so in her spare time, she would swill pigs for one of the neighbors. She felt that Farmer Roan only did it out of pity though, and that irritated her. But she needed the money. The little she'd brought with her would be depleted in just a few short months.

Her good fortune came when John suggested that she reopened the small abandoned forge, the previous owners killed during the far reaching terror of the Dorocha. She was confident in her abilities as a blacksmith as far as this village's basic needs went anyway, having helped her father run the forge out of necessity many times over the years, and especially after Elyan had left. She was unpracticed, but didn't think it would take her long to hone her skills once more. Swords might be a little beyond her capabilities, but in a village they wouldn't be needed anyway. Hinges and ladles she could handle admirably.

The attached house was modest, but a little larger than her home in Camelot, and would provide more space than she needed. The smithy and sewing would be enough for a comfortable living, but it would take some time to arrange with Gregory, the lord over the village, and she was skeptical he'd grant her petition if he recognized her. She wasn't sure she'd want to risk that either way.

Fredrick and Erwan had continued on to Gad, and Gwen's suspicions of them as knights of Camelot waned. Remaining in the township long enough to dispatch another letter to Leon, they had camped in the wood for a reasonable amount of time then reappeared in Longstead, offering to provide protection against the growing threat of Southrons. It was a good enough excuse to keep them close to her, and also pledged to help around the forge once it was operational. Though it was bizarre and Gwen had tried to refuse, they insisted, citing that they needed work just as much as the next person, that they could bring in more with three pairs of hands rather than just one.

They settled in an abandoned home too. There were far too many empty ones around the village and Gwen was surprised one of the smaller villages in the area hadn't merged their citizens with it for more protection. Fredrick left within days to apply for the petition with Lord Gregory, knowing it might take some time.

"I don't understand why you're doing this," Gwen said, looking up at him on his horse. "You know nothing about working with metals."

"I don't need to, there are other things that need doing in a smithy, and I'm perfectly capable of talking to customers and delivering goods and even hauling raw metal around till you get to working on it. We all recognize the need for a forge. And besides, my lady, there's something about you that makes men like me bow and acquiesce in your presence. I can't explain it any more than that. But trust me, when I return, that forge will become famous throughout this land, and people will come from miles around just to appeal for your service."

"It'll be the novelty factor of their hinges being made by a woman that'll have them running. Most likely in the opposite direction. God forbid a woman should do a man's work." Gwen huffed a laugh. "Until then I'll just have to keep swilling pigs."

"Builds character," he said with a smile. "I'll see you in six days. Prepare the forge in the meantime. There's no reason why Gregory would deny my petition, and there'll be plenty of work when I do return. Everyone was more than positive about your skills when we mentioned the possibility."

She looked at him with a smile that touched her eyes. "Thank you. You don't know how much this means to me."

"I think I do, my lady."

"How many times must I tell you-?"

"-That you're not a lady. You're wrong. You're worthy of the title, and you'll always be one in my eyes." It was said far too seriously for Gwen's liking. After what she did there was just no way she could be considered a lady. But to humor him would make him happy and she found she could not deny his being happy. They had both helped her more than she deserved.

Gwen bit her lip, and nodded with assent. "Safe journey, Fredrick."

The soldier nodded then turned his horse west in a slow trot. He called over his shoulder, "Keep the runt busy clearing the forge. He needs to build character, too." All Gwen could do was break down into laughter at Erwan being called a runt. The man was smaller in build than Fredrick, but by no means undersized and frail.

…

Arthur huffed with disbelief as he read through the letter. "'A woman possessed of natural beauty, elegant grace and charm, and keen intellect. She is loved and respected by king, kinsmen, and subjects. A worthy queen for Camelot.'" Anyone would take such biased praise of a potential but unseen bride with a healthy dose of skepticism, so he could perhaps be forgiven for needing clarification.

He had clandestinely met Nemeth's emissary in a nearby town last week dressed as a commoner. Of course their emissary would have such a glowing report to capture his imagination, interest, and perhaps his desire, but he had not expected to read it from his own trusted emissary sent to Nemeth.

"Guinevere is all those things and more," he heard himself say. He shook his head, dispersing those thoughts immediately and sighing heavily again. No. He mustn't think like that. To compare them would bring nothing but discord to the union, and that wouldn't be fair to Mithian. Guinevere was no longer a part of his life, and to prepare for his new wife, he had to bury those kinds of thoughts and feelings even though he was sure he may never love Mithian as much as he had loved Gwen. And that wasn't fair to the princess either. No. His future queen.

Then why did it feel like he was making a mistake? He had never really thought much about marriage before becoming crown prince, and was sure it was fated to be arranged. Royal marriages often began as a business arrangement and some evolved into friendship, respect, or both if they were lucky; and fewer found love at all.

But then Gwen seemed to appear out of nowhere, and stole his heart. He'd wanted no one else since then, and had held a burning need to marry for love. So would it be a lifetime of regret if he married Mithian knowing that he could never really give his whole heart to any other woman? And yet was he despoiling a chance at happiness with another by pining for his true love lost? Could this arrangement evolve into more? Did he want it to? There was always the chance that Mithian and he were compatible and an attraction could grow into more than just mere respect.

Arthur groaned with exasperation and vowed to put as much of his heart into the marriage as he could, though deep down, he knew it would never grow into anything more than his duty to produce heirs to rule both kingdoms. And even that was not really agreeable to him in the moment.

Nonetheless, he had to make the announcement of the marriage soon. Merlin was not going to like that, he was sure.

That thought, of course, was perhaps the understatement of the century. But Merlin would have to learn as king, Arthur's word was law, no matter if it did hurt the sensitive feelings of his manservant, or, and this thought was so much smaller than the rest, his own.

"Are you sure, Gwen?" Erwan tried one more time to keep Gwen from cleaning the pig sty for Farmer Roan, reaching for the pitchfork she held firmly in her hands, and Gwen dancing out of reach with practiced ease.

"This is my responsibility. I need this more than you do. Didn't you promise John you'd help fix Lily's roof today?"

"I'd much rather spend time with the pigs than with that old crone," he replied with an aggrieved tone. "Didn't you hear that she tried to impale me yesterday?"

"Yes, and I think you deserved it after what you did. You startled her half to death. She's nearly blind, you know. I'm sure she didn't mean it." It was hard to keep the amusement out of her voice but she couldn't, Erwan's face a picture. He made an even larger mock sour face at her for chuckling outright at his misfortunes. It just made her laugh more and his mouth soften into genuine mirth.

"And deaf apparently." They both shared a laugh. He then sobered and looked at her directly. "You shouldn't be doing this." The mood had turned far too serious, far too quick.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Erwan swallowed, almost letting slip what he knew of her life in Camelot. "It—It's man's work. A woman should be…doing other things."

"And I suppose smithing is work normally carried out by a woman? You've been very supportive of my doing that so what's the difference? This is a small village, Erwan. We must all work together to keep it going, whether it's in the fields, or hunting, or swilling pigs. We all have to do our part. Now off you go. John's waiting." And she turned him by the shoulder she could grab with her one unoccupied hand and gave him a playful swat with the handle of the fork.

Erwan granted her a nod, then departed, leaving Gwen to linger, looking after his retreating figure for a moment more before setting to the business of cleaning the pig sty. She considered herself blessed with more than what she had imagined, swilling pigs and all. She missed her friends in Camelot, and Arthur more so, but she had made new ones and rekindled old ones. Determination to leave the past behind brought its own rewards it seemed, no matter how painful the transition had proved to be.

She dug the pitchfork into the soiled hay, and threw it over the wall, her thoughts wandering to Arthur as they so often did. She wondered what he might be doing, preparing for Ostara most likely. But was he missing her as much as she him? She leaned into the handle of the pitchfork, and fingered the wedding band as if to draw comfort, it now tied around her neck with a simple leather cord. It'd been over a month, and the pain had lessened to a dull ache, though the emptiness in her heart was tenfold. She didn't think it would ever leave her completely, but she would carry on. She had other people to care for and be cared about now.

When it happened, she was looking right at him, at Erwan, an axe hitting him squarely in the head, felling him instantly, blood spraying out in an arc, unable to look away from the gruesome reality. She almost couldn't believe it, could think it a hallucination from the overpowering smell of the swill, but then the shouting and screaming began, villagers scattering from a horde of men in black rampaging and slaughtering anyone in their path. It became all too real all too quickly and it snapped her from the shocked stupor immediately following Erwan's death.

She ducked behind the wall, noticing that John had also lowered himself behind the roof of Lily's house. Mary, she thought, please let her be all right. Oh Erwan. Perhaps if she could make it to the forge, she could retrieve her sword, could drive a few of the raiders away at least. Why had she become so comfortable here as to not stay armed? Especially with the stories of raids she kept hearing, vague as they had been. She knew all too well how vague stories had a way of being entirely true.

There was a gap, risky but there as she snuck another glance over the wall. It was her only chance, and so she ran, only to come face to face with a marauder. Halting so abruptly, she faltered backwards, falling hard to the ground. Her gap had been no gap at all. She was surrounded, and all she saw was the sword begin its upward swing to deliver the inevitable fatal blow, and she couldn't help flinching. Then it stopped, another's arm blocking its downward path toward her.

"Wait," a dark man ordered, tall, bald, and glaring at her covetously. "There's still pleasure to be had here." The words made her shiver, so cold, so calculating. She was under no illusions what he wanted. So this was what it had come to?

Fredrick had never been an impatient man, but it was taking longer for Gregory to grant the petition than he had thought it would, and with the air charged so thick with friction, he felt it was going to be even further delayed. The hairs on his neck prickled, something was very wrong. Clarwick Manor should have been preparing for Ostara, a celebration of Spring, of rebirth, but chaos buzzed around him, and not the usual chaos of feasting and merriment. There was an undercurrent that spoke of wariness and fright, the servants and guards rushing about the corridors of the great manor, harried and tense. He grabbed the arm of a page rushing by, grim concentration upon his countenance.

"What's happening, boy?"

"Longstead was raided yesterday, many dead, or missing. Southrons." Breathy and panicked, the answer left him cold all over, a creeping chill as he tried to comprehend an idea far too terrible.

"What?!" Guinevere, Erwan, Mary and John! He should have been there. Maybe they would have had a chance. It was his duty to protect them. Her mostly, though also to his comrade and the rest of the innocents of the village. He'd made promises to Sir Leon and his king. The king…the king will have his head. He tightened his grasp on the young messenger, eyes so hard that the boy shriveled and paled in his very presence. "I'm Fredrick Dumont of Camelot, a sergeant in the king's army. Take me to Lord Gregory. _Now!_ "

One of Gregory's councilors was speaking when Fredrick was escorted into the small council chamber. They ignored him as he came in, too used to the comings and goings of a war council. "The king has deployed more troops for Meldreth and Hawthorne, but only a third of them has arrived."

A knight spoke, regret threading through every word. "The garrisons are sending troops now to the borders, but I fear it's too late."

"How could _hundreds_ of invaders slip through our borders without detection?" Fredrick asked vehemently and with such heated passion all heads turned to the newcomer. They stared, some of them with shock that turned to disdain for the interruption, others with amusement, and some indifference. That was the question no one had dared to ask as yet.

"Sorcery." All heads turned to Gregory, a middle-aged man with aged eyes and weathered skin more like an old man's, his hair gray, thin, and long, his face and hands wrinkled and worn. But those same eyes held a pointed wisdom and wits honed by living on a harsh border were as razor-sharp as ever. "Our king may not approve of such tactics, but there are many kingdoms and factions that do. It puts us at quite a disadvantage."

Fredrick moved to the table with sure steps, his eyes meeting those that stared back at him. "Sorcery or not, we must aid the king. We must track them." Gregory gave him a slow perusal from the top of his head to the tip of his worn boots, leaving the seasoned veteran feeling much like an ill-mannered brat up for reprimand.

"What is your name? Fredrick, did you say? Yesterday, you were a blacksmith. Today you are what? A soldier?" Fredrick pushed the feelings of inadequacy the lord instilled with his inspection and squared his shoulders.

"I will be what I need to be to protect the king's people and his lands." One person in particular, but there was no need to bring that cat out of the bag unless strictly necessary.

Gregory cocked an eyebrow. "Indeed. And how would you suggest we track something that cannot be seen or detected?" He couldn't tell if he was being condescended to or if he were just imagining it, as he strove to stay polite whilst strangling the panic that threatened to unman him.

"There's always some evidence left behind, especially with an army of great size. You must send word to the king about Longstead."

Gregory leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes. "Longstead is a dusty little village of no great value. Who are you? Really." There was no hiding the shrewdness or the calculating stare this time. This would be a hard man to cross.

"Fredrick Dumont, a soldier of Camelot." He stood tall, and squared his shoulders again. "And every village is of value to the king, no matter how dusty." Perhaps it was a little bold under the circumstances but it seemed to amuse the lord for some reason if the twinkle deep within his glance was anything to go by. It made him relax just the merest hint.

"What are you doing here? Why did you petition to reopen a forge in Longstead if you are a soldier in the army? Are you a deserter?" All good questions and ones he might have asked in the same circumstances. But no matter. He was starting to feel a kinship with this hard bitten soldier. These were not his secrets to share, and he answered only to a higher power.

"No, my lord. On a mission of great importance to the king. That is all you need to know." And all he was willing to give.

This alarmed Gregory, but he kept it well concealed and his voice steady. "Does our king not trust me? Are you here to spy upon your own countrymen?"

Fredrick sighed, the last thing he ever thought he would be doing was reassuring the lords of the realm. He wasn't cut out for this, he was no diplomat. "No, my lord. But if you value all that you have here, you will not question me further. It is a personal matter for the king, and I dare not say more."

"And can you afford to abandon your 'mission of great importance' to track an enemy army?" Only if that enemy army held the person he was responsible for. If she were dead? Well, he would still follow the army and take out as many as he could before he succumbed. If harm had befallen her on his watch his life would be forfeit anyway.

"I must return to Longstead first. My…my family is there. I must know." Either way, the answer lay in Longstead.

Gregory studied the soldier for a moment, sizing him up, evidently finding something of value. "Very well. Sir Stanley." The knight stood. "Send Sir Kolby and Sir Maxwell with him, and retain a retinue of Meldreth soldiers in Longstead. Then track that army and dispatch couriers to the king and to me. I want reports every three days."

The muscles in his shoulders relaxed, a sigh released the tension. It was more than Frederick had dared hope for.

….

The bodies had already been buried, the injured treated and recovering, the buildings under repair by the time he returned. Fredrick dismounted with haste, the freshly turned earth and stone mounds creating a single minded determination that leant wind to his feet. Kolby followed at a more decorous pace as he tore into Guinevere's home to find it empty and in disarray, but with no blood in evidence.

The forge was in no better condition, ransacked and pillaged for supplies, useless tools scattered, empty places on the hooks where others had hung but were now missing. Even the anvil had been hauled away. He bit his lip, swallowing the despair that threatened to overcome him.

He ran to the home he shared with Erwan, Kolby at his heels, dodging villagers and knights and soldiers from Meldreth, hoping she and Erwan were there. But he opened the door on nothing but destruction. All of Erwan's weapons were gone too, all their food stuffs, blankets; the rest scattered, broken, bent. His shoulders slumped and he lowered his head, failure eating at him.

"He's dead." John was stood in the doorway, Maxwell behind him. Kolby turned to the voice as Fredrick's shoulders stiffened at the blunt pronouncement. No. He couldn't face John. "He was the first to die. He didn't even have a chance. Mary's dead too," he croaked, tears streaking the dirt on his face.

"Gwen?" Fredrick's throat was tight. "Where's my lady?" He would mourn the losses later once he knew her fate.

"I don't know." Fredrick turned then. "They took her, eleven men, seven women and girls."

"What?" The nausea and dread was replaced with pure rage. There was only a few reasons why women were kidnapped, to serve in one capacity or another. Even the tiny bud of hope at Gwen being alive couldn't stop the thought of what she might be having to endure even now.

"Fifteen were killed. Erwan was armed when they arrived. They probably thought he was a threat. He died instantly, didn't even have chance to draw his sword, but the rest of us tried to fight back as best we could. Mary—she-" John started to sob.

Fredrick barreled past him, but stopped abruptly remembering the courageous spirit and kindness of the woman. Kolby nearly bumped into him so suddenly he did an about face. Fredrick approached John, his demeanor softening into deepest sympathy. He placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry about Mary. I didn't know her very long, but she was a good woman."

"Aye. That she was."

He leveled his eyes on John, and squeezed his shoulder. "I'm going after Gwen. We'll bring them all back, John. I swear." Or he would die trying.


	6. Let No Man Tear Asunder

A/N: So I wasn't planning on writing about this, but since fans seemed to want it, I added a whole new background on Gwen's captivity and have worried over it for nearly four weeks now. LOL! Gwen went through a lot in this chapter, but I revised it about three times entirely. It was gritty, too mature, and has changed so much from the beginning to where it stands now. The final is still well over 12,000 words, so I've had to break Hunter's Heart into three chapters. Here's the first of them.

Thanks everybody that helped on these chapters. You kept me on my toes with questions and wherefores about this and that and that other thing meant a lot to me.

Additionally, for all those who pay attention to details like me, the online maps of Camelot do not label many of the landmarks and terrains, so I did a little research and made up the rest of the names for the sake of logistics in the story. I hope you do not mind. And gauging the size of a medieval army was a nightmare too (I revised their numbers several times, so if things don't line up, I apologize now.)

To all my guests who I can't reply to personally, thank you so much for your reviews. They help to keep me going.

I don't own Merlin. He and all things Camelot belongs to BBC Fremantle. The new characters are mine, though.

….

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 6 Let No Man Tear Asunder

After saving her life, Gwen saw the warlord say a few words to some soldiers while pointing at her; they all turned simultaneously and glanced in her direction. Gwen shivered into herself and stepped back involuntary, unsure of what it all meant. Then the warlord simply mounted his horse and rode off. Grouped with the other women, and then separated from the men. She was now the property of the warlord's battalion, Scorpion.

The Southron army was built for speed, constantly on the move, advancing fifteen kilometers most days. Hugging the borders east of Camelot between the Feorre Mountains and Escetir, the army of five thousand soldiers moved along the River Lark, heading north like a cloud of locusts. It was a horde of black and gray clad men, some in short cloaks while others were adorned with hoods and scarves that covered their faces. Another one thousand servants, slaves, and captives, including children made up the supply train, pulled in carts, wagons, or cages or walked to the cadence of the march. Many wagons of foodstuffs and supplies, riding horses, war horses, beasts of burden, and livestock and fowl for consumption completed the mass. It was an army come ready for war.

Infantry wore heavy leather chest plates or hard leather vests. But most troops were lightly armored which was very effective in swift raids and surprise attacks. Trained Southrons were armed with their signature weapon, the saber, and a secondary weapon of choice. Male captives now rumored to be spelled by powerful sorcerers were issued swords and various blunt instruments of destruction including battle axes, maces, or flails.

They ate at dawn, immediately breaking camp after, and resuming their advancement with haste, only stopping to eat and rest. Upon the evening stop, the camp came to life with a buzz of activity. The slaves and the Longstead captives were not allowed to rest and were put to work immediately. Forced to dig latrines and take care of all field sanitation, hauling water from the river, and performing tasks necessary to sustain the army. Children collected firewood and made the fires throughout each battalion; some were slaves, some were not. Adult servants prepared the meats, bread, fruits, and mead to feed troops, livestock, and slaves. Squires, servants, and slaves set up rows upon rows of tents by class and rank, while their masters and the war council focused on battle tactics. Women rigorously groomed soldiers, animals, and each other for fleas and lice, a constant chore in the fight against disease. They were lucky to get two to three hours of sleep a day.

Slaves were constantly mistreated and punished severely, but they were a valuable commodity and usually left fit to work. Well, fit enough. At any moment, they could be beaten for any minor infraction, and many times for nothing. Some slaves had rations cut for one camp and one march, and others were left for dead. As an example for the Longstead captives, James, one of their own, was flogged and had his legs broken because he attempted to flee. Now he would never run again and was left behind when the camp broke, useless to them now. It was little consolation to the remaining captives that the guard responsible for rendering him useless was punished as well. The slaves attached to the Southron army for years were ever so obedient while the Longstead captives wailed with terror.

Gwen saw despair in the Longstead women as they rode off in the prison cart. She knew she had to find a way to give them hope. She saw Jacinth still staring behind them in the direction where James was left behind, her face wet with tears. Gwen was compelled to show strength. She ripped a part of her apron and staggered to the rear of the cart towards Jacinth. She warmly embraced the younger woman and didn't let go until she felt her breathing slow down. With one hand, Guinevere used the cloth to wipe her tears and with her other hand she gently guided Jacinth's gaze from down the trail behind them and into her eyes. As she held her gaze, Gwen tried to say "Don't lose hope" with just her eyes.

She turned to the other women in the cart, and just above a whisper, she said, "We have to be strong. I'm sure Lord Gregory has sent word to King Arthur, and when he finds out what's happened to Longstead, his men will save us. I'm sure of it."

One of the Whipmasters on horseback came alongside the cart and snapped his whip around Gwen's arm, yanking her to the edge of the cart. In a loud gravelly voice, he shouted, "Shut up, wench," as he slapped her and pushed her to the floor of the cart, before dropping back to resume his vigilant watch.

Gwen pulled herself to her feet and dusted off her apron and dress. Her cheek bore a wicked handprint, but she'd said what she needed to say.

….

Fredrick was right: the Southron army was easy to track, their path of destruction unmistakable. It was a great host from the size of the swath of torn up earth, and far more than they'd expected. With only thirty Clarwick knights and ten squires and servants, there was talk of abandoning their cause. Fredrick reminded them that they weren't there to fight a war; and if anyone else spoke of giving up, he would run them through. Maxwell said he'd help him. The army would be in sight tomorrow, and their rear forces will be visible by nightfall, giving them a better idea of what they were up against.

As a veteran of war, Fredrick knew the Southrons would break off at some point to attack Camelot, taking most of their fighting force and experienced servants in the War Party. Leaving only a small contingent of soldiers for the protection of everyone else, their numbers would be diminished, these troops remaining behind about a half day until word to rejoin the War Party came. It was still a large enough encampment for a small group of Clarwick knights to infiltrate unnoticed.

Kolby, a fair-haired captain of the highest caliber, had ordered them to leave their banner and colors in Longstead, the mission requiring stealth and anonymity. "We'll go in while they're setting up camp for the night, each man to a sector, and gather information until dawn. Speak to no one. Avoid contact at all costs. No matter what we may encounter within the encampment, we do not interfere." He turned his confident, dark brown eyes on Fredrick. "Sir, you are not to take any action if you come across your lady or any others you may know. We'll need to assess the situation and to come up with a plan before we take action. Is that understood?"

Fredrick nodded. "New captives will be left behind. Too much distraction from the task of warring. Probably well-guarded, caged, maybe some in tents."

"So there's every chance that Lady Guinevere and the others can be found." Maxwell was a quiet knight with a touch of mischief that sparked every now and again and had gotten him into much trouble when he was younger. That was why he now spent most of his time alone when he wasn't on the training field, on detail, or on patrol, preferring quiet places to read any piece of literature he could get his hands on. People had stopped asking him what he was reading because most of the time it didn't make any sense to them why he would waste his time on something so obscure anyway. He was quite brilliant, though, and had a way of making things seem easy. His usual smile was absent tonight.

"Very likely."

"Some of the men you promised to bring back may be in the attacking forces. We may not be able to save them."

"They're farmers mostly, or tradesmen, not warriors. I think most will be used as slave labor, not for combat. They're more than likely with the rest of the male prisoners."

Ector, a knight of royal Nubian descent, and fancied by most of the maidens for his good looks, asked, "With an army this size, there could be a hundred slaves spread throughout the encampment. How many do we plan to liberate? And more importantly, _how_ will we liberate them?"

Maxwell knew that the man's bold nature would require nothing less than a solid attempt at rescuing all the captives, which made him the noblest of them all. "If we're to get everyone out, we're going to need more than just horses. We will need supplies," he pointed out.

"For now, we infiltrate only," Kolby stressed, the magnitude and scope of a not-so-simple rescue just realized days ago. "Gather as much information as we can, and locate the prison cages or tents. We'll come up with something once we have more details."

"Once we do get them out? Where do we take them?"

"We take them home," Fredrick replied adamantly. "Some of your men will take them to their villages, return them to their loved ones. The rest of us will aid our king in whatever way possible."

….

The mighty army crossed into Camelot territory still hugging the River Lark on the third day, its vast numbers stretching across the horizon. On the edges of the Lower Woodlands, two towns were swallowed up and plundered for more captives, food, supplies, and fodder. Advanced scouts had already returned, reporting the movement of Camelot troops north of Tancred's High Hills.

One of the advantages of having a High Priestess leading an army was her power to disguise their movements with magic. If glimpsed from the periphery, and only at the right angle, the horde of Southrons could be seen. But if one tried to look at it full on, only a dense Spring fog could be seen. It was a tactic that served them well as they marched toward Camelot.

Gwen and five others were forced to dig post holes for horse leads in the Scorpion battalion. It was grueling repetition: line the row perfectly, dig the hole deep enough, get the pole from the cart; carry the pole from the cart, plant the pole in the hole, go to the end of the line, then start a new hole. She was once told that a lead slave set the anchor pole on a main artery, and the row of poles soon blocked the flow of servants carrying trays of food to hungry soldiers. The slave was beaten and then sent to dig latrine ditches. Gwen wiped her hands on her breeches after stamping the ground around a just planted pole.

"…Start a new hole. Dig the hole, grab the pole, carry the pole, plant the pole, fill the hole, start a new hole." Gwen chanted this mantra over and over, the repetition keeping her distracted on something other than the current state of her life. She didn't want to remember how far she'd fallen, or how much she had lost. She didn't want to think about Arthur, or how within one month, she was captive of an invading army on route to destroying the love of her life and her home. She wanted so much to feel sorry for herself and it took all she had to keep rooted in the hope of rescue.

She'd lost track of the men since they were separated, so when Gwen witnessed nineteen-year-old Reynard, a Longstead youth now clad in Southron black kill a slave, she nearly dropped a pole back onto the cart, a disruption that would have earned her some form of punishment for sure. She eyed the blood dripping from a stained and oft-used cleaver as he returned it to his hip. He stared at her briefly, his glare frosty and dispassionate, before walking away toward the inner parts of camp. Some other slaves jumped to remove the body. She feared that hope was nearly exhausted.

"Why did he do that?" Gwen was beyond depressed. "Why did he have to do that?"

Horace, an elder slave, retrieved one of the poles and responded with repulsion. "Your friend believes himself a Southron now, ready to die for their cause. And you're now seen as the enemy."

"What do you mean?" She nearly forced the question from her lips, so afraid of the answer she knew was coming.

"He's been enchanted by the High Priestess. Her magic binds their minds, twisting a new reality for them. They don't really see you anymore. All they see is the enemy. They're no longer who they were."

"Morgana cursed them?" Since her captivity, Morgana's name was spoken with reverence by some but whispered in fear more often by most. Few had actually seen her in the camp, speculating that Helios rode out to meet her most of the time. Problematic for Gwen being in Helios' battalion; she mustn't let the High Priestess discover her.

"A few more days he won't need the spell. He'll be well and truly dead then. It's pure evil." He dropped the pole in the hole and pounded dirt around it.

"No, it's madness," Keton corrected, another slave with a thick foreign dialect, long submissive to the way things worked. "No more wastin' time torturin' an' breakin' 'em when a spell can control 'em in a matter of minutes. It's quicker that way too, for increasin' the ranks."

Keton leaned into Gwen, inches from her face, his breath hot and foul. "If you get close enough you can see the spell wrapped 'round the dark of their eyes."

"Is there no hope for them?"

"I don't know," Horace admitted. "All I do know is that they belong to her now."

Gwen couldn't stop the chill that raced down her spine as her eyes found the retreating back of Reynard before he blended into the thick of the campsite.

….

The Southrons didn't bother to hide their numbers while marching through Lot's territory, but the moment they crossed into Camelot, a thick fog covered the land as far as the eyes could see. The Clarwick party barely had the enemy host in their sights before the work of sorcery put a halt to their well-laid plans of infiltration and observation. Discord spread amongst them again. Once more Fredrick threatened further dissension with death and Maxwell once again agreed to assist him.

They hadn't set one foot into the Southron encampment before the fog rolled in two days ago, and frustration replaced productiveness and tempers were rising. Sirs Kolby, Ector, and Maxwell spoke away from the main camp of soldiers circling a fire pit. Fredrick noticed they did that a lot these past few days.

"There are many wards placed around the perimeter that strengthen the concealment spell," Maxwell stated. "It's a complex spell. Those on the inside don't see the fog. Those outside can't see through it. Even if we were to walk into it, we'd still see only fog because we weren't touched by the enchantment at its origin. Perhaps it wouldn't have been necessary before the fog, but we must tell Fredrick the truth if he's to be of any use to us. There are six prison carts so far counted. The Longsteaders may be in any of them."

Kolby pinched his nose and shook his head. "He's from Camelot. It's too much of a risk."

"We knew this was a possibility," said Ector. "We don't have time to be indecisive."

Maxwell asked, that devilish spark igniting, "What did you think was going to happen, Kolby? Lord Gregory sent me for a reason. The time for secrets is over."

"What secrets?" Fredrick joined the conversation as he approached them unexpectedly, and by the look on his face, he wasn't in the mood for subtlety.

Maxwell was young, but he knew how to measure a man, and Fredrick was one not to be trifled with. "A word, Sir Fredrick?" The Clarwick knight moved past his fellows quickly, ignoring Kolby's nonverbal protest with his eyes, gently taking Fredrick's arm and guiding him away for a private conversation. As they walked side by side, Maxwell said, "There are at least three sorcerers helping the Southrons."

Fredrick stopped in his tracks. "What?! How in hell would you know that?"

"Sir, we know the fog is not real. That it's there to conceal their movements. The only way this could happen is with sorcery. And with the size of their encampment, there's a good chance that there are more sorcerers to protect it, including the High Priestess, Lady Morgana."

"How do you know this?"

Maxwell paused for a second or two. "The only way to fight sorcery is with sorcery," he declared with surety. "I've been inside their camp. I can see past the fog, and I've been able to gather a little information. Fredrick, I can lift the illusion from your eyes so that you can see past it, too."

Each statement from Maxwell's mouth was like a strike to the face. Fredrick was reeling, and angrily said, "You're a sorcerer." He spat upon the ground, bristling from the deception. His eyes were dark, and his hands twitched upon the hilt of his sword.

Even the most benign association with sorcery meant treason, a death sentence in the kingdom of Camelot. Fighting for two kings with prejudice against a group of people's way of life was his way of life these past twenty-six years. He'd spent decades in the ranks of soldiers and knights on missions of destruction and death in Uther's mad fight against sorcery, and most of the time he'd abhorred it. He would not deny that. Arthur was like his father in this regard, yet no longer actively pursuing all those the old king feared. There were far fewer accounts of executions and raids under the young king, and those that were hunted always had evil intents against the crown or the kingdom. They had made the realm a safer place. He wanted to believe that.

"This is a punishable offense. Surely Lord Gregory—"

"Knows nothing of this," he lied. Few people knew, but for their own safety, he would not reveal their identity.

"Sorcery is proven to be nothing but evil. You must have enchanted them to be blind to your magic."

"That is not true. And lower your voice," he scolded with a hiss. "I said a few of them know about my magic. You're being foolish, sir."

"Watch your tongue, boy," the soldier warned. He reached instinctively for his sword, then stopped with it half drawn. The air surged with tension as they stared eye to eye, then Fredrick shoved the weapon back into its scabbard.

"I only want to serve using all of my gifts." Maxwell pointed to the soldier's sword as a case in point. "The intangible…" He spoke in a foreign tongue, then his eyes flared gold. Fredrick's sword quickly lifted from his side, unsheathed itself, and floated in the air. "…and the tangible."

It was a simple trick for Maxwell, but Fredrick drew in a quick breath and narrowed his eyes. He was disarmed in seconds.

Kolby and Ector, having heard the sword unsheathe, turned and walked toward them.

"It's a great advantage having him in our service..." said Kolby as he grabbed the sword from midair and handed it back to Fredrick, "…on our side instead of fighting against us. Because of the king's decrees, Camelot isn't the only city under the constant threat of sorcery. If only the King Arthur could see the logic in using magic for the good of the kingdom."

Fredrick was speechless. He held up a finger in front of all of them, the gravity of the situation assaulting him physically almost. "You speak treason."

"It's the only way," said Kolby.

"We don't have time for this." Ector was frustrated.

"I implore that you do not inform the King of this," Maxwell pleaded.

They spoke over each other as Fredrick's brow deepened further. "You want me to withhold this from my king? Forsake my honor? I will not."

Ector was harsh. "Then you condemn your lady to whatever Fate has now dealt her."

Discipline was splintering, and Fredrick was finding it difficult to remain centered. He turned an offended glare on him. "How dare you," he said, stalking toward Ector.

Kolby stepped in front of him. "He's right. We don't have time for this," the Clarwick captain said forcefully. "The army is headed for Camelot as we speak. If Morgana has more sorcerers to aid her, our kingdom could be lost. Don't you see? We hold an advantage. The Southrons are unaware that we have a sorcerer on our side. Think how much more we could do with Maxwell's help."

"It's still treason," he said with more calm, but resisting still even though he saw their logic.

"Something we have to live with every day," Kolby confirmed solemnly. "But it's a subjective matter in the grand scheme of things. Our people and our kingdom would be much better off if we respected those with magic than persecuted them. I think we'd have fewer wars if the king realized this."

Maxwell spoke up, seeing that Fredrick was listening now. "So far, I've found six prison carts and your lady could be in any one of them. We can't save them all, and without you, we may not be able to find her. What would you suggest we do, sir?"

His honor at stake, Fredrick tried to balance his loyalty to the king with his duty to the others, but mostly to Gwen. For any chance of success, they would need this edge. Maxwell was a sorcerer, and he was angry that they guarded this secret from him, but he was more furious that they might be right.

The pause was long and Maxwell raised an eyebrow. "Sir, we haven't all night." Kolby let out a groaned, having seen Maxwell's mischief starting to peek out.

Fredrick scoffed, and then after a moment replied, "For the sake of my lady, I'll do this. But be warned: when this is over, I'm turning myself over to the King for consorting with a sorcerer."

The Clarwick knights looked askance at each other. Maxwell said with a hint of sarcasm, "That's very noble of you, sir."

"And what about us?" Ector asked.

When Fredrick's only response was a steely gaze, Kolby said, "We'll deal with that when the time comes. Maxwell, what must we do to see within the fog?" They'd lost two days, nearly three, and still needed more information before they could even remotely come up with a new plan that resembled a rescue.

And so approaching from the sides later that night, they used the terrain as cover the closer they came to the edges of the fog. Maxwell mapped out the encampment using magic that depicted a well-organized, tightly grouped arrangement of battalions, their companies and pinpointed the locations of six prison carts sporadically scattered throughout.

He evoked a lengthy enchantment to lift the illusion from the four of them, taking three tries before he got it right and the encampment slowly appeared before them. Up close, their numbers and size were daunting, the encampment spread out even more when they settled for the night. Even Fredrick wavered in his resolve over their odds. But it was only for a moment. They split into two teams, Ector and Maxwell to seek out the sorcerers and other liabilities, Kolby and Fredrick to search the prison carts and find the Longsteaders.

In his twelve hours in the camp, they did not come across them. Fredrick did not find Gwen.

….

A few hours into the morning march, Gwen received another reminder of the Southron's indifference to the lives of their slaves and servants, having seen a female trampled underfoot when she fell from exhaustion. Gwen let out an anguished cry to stop the advancement and attempted to rush to the young woman's aid, breaking rank and grasping desperately to pull her to safety.

A Whipmaster on foot immediately noticed this and reached for his whip. He snapped it around her ankles and yanked, causing Gwen to fall forward. She caught herself from a full impact on the ground, and quickly untangled leather from her ankles. The guard was upon her suddenly and grabbed a fistful of hair, yanking her to her feet. Gwen cried out and clutched at his fist. Ignored by the troops who continued to march and forsaken by the subservient who knew their places, all but one set of eyes turned away.

"Slaves need to stay in line," the guard snarled. He dragged her back to where the others marched. "Leave the weak where they fall."

Southron rhetoric. "We are not cattle," she spat. "We are not property to be discarded indiscriminately."

"You're whatever we want you to be." He let go of her hair and backhanded her. Gwen fell to the ground. "And right now I want you to shut up." He pulled the dazed maiden to her feet, again by the hair. "You've been nothing but trouble since you got here. And slaves like you don't last long."

Guinevere told the others not to despair but was finding it hard to not do so herself. She realized help was not coming. At least not for now. She had to survive this long only so that she could warn Camelot, and the only person that could save her was herself. She needed to take her chances and try to escape, even though she was fatigued mentally and physically.

"Perhaps that's because death is preferable." She grabbed the dagger from his hip, knowing there would be dire consequences for her actions, and slashed his cheek. The searing pain enraged the Whipmaster, and on reflex, he struck her with an open palm to her face. She collapsed to the ground, her head contacting the ground hard enough that she lost consciousness.

The Whipmaster picked up his dagger, and using his foot, he rolled Gwen over onto her back. Circling her, and making darting glances between the dagger and Gwen as he debated the consequences he would face if she died by his hands.

Squatting beside her unconscious body, he said, "I want to kill you right now." The thought of a slave girl cutting him with his own knife was an insult to his ego. "But I'll have to answer to the warlord. The problem is you've made it really difficult for me to care what happens to me, what my punishment would be should I kill you right now." He traced her face with his dagger.

The Warlord witnessed it all, from the moment Gwen first cried out, to how the Whipmaster now taunted her. It did not matter what she did. He knew his men were cruel, and sometimes for no reason.

"That's enough, Tebbe," said Helios, dismounting and coming to stand before the Whipmaster. He was flanked by four of his war council commanders. By the look on the warlord's face, Tebbe suddenly did care what his punishment would be. He stood with trepidation, the dagger now hanging languidly by his side.

"My lord!"

"What do you think you're doing?"

"She took my weapon, my lord, and she used it against me." The Whipmaster couldn't keep the vehemence out of his voice nor the sneer on his lips.

"Then you got what you deserve for letting a slave disarm you." This guard disobeyed the orders he gave on the day of the Longstead raid. Helios had pointed directly at Gwen and said she was not to be harmed. She was to labor as any other, but she was otherwise off limits. Tebbe knew this, but his affinity for violence overrode his reason for restraint.

Gwen fought for consciousness, forced open her eyes long enough to see the warlord draw his sword and sliced through the air so quickly that surprise never registered on Tebbe's face when his throat open and gushed with blood. "And this is what you deserve for disobeying my order."

Helios sheathed his sword and scooped Guinevere with ease. His eyes found the Whipmaster's journeyman, a slick-haired brute with rotting teeth. "Stuart, you're the new Whipmaster. You're now in charge." His voice was deep and rumbled through his chest, and she slipped back into unconsciousness as she was handed from Helios to another, and then back into Helios' arms. The warlord and his commanders rode past the arrogant journeyman eagerly reaching for the whip from the dead man's waist clip, and with Helios gazing down at the woman of his desire.


	7. Nemo Animatis Divellunt, Pars Duo

A/N: Here is part two of Hunter's Heart (retitled to reflect the accurate chapter continuation). Many thanks to larasmith for the prompt to delve a little more into Guinevere's captivity which left me filling in several gaps in the episode. Please let me know how you like this version and be honest guys and gals.

Thanks so much to my smart and wonderful and brilliant beta, KIMMIKY, and to tubahayes, for without I'd still be working on this one. It's been a long road completing these chapters. I hope you enjoy.

I don't own Merlin. The new characters are mine, though.

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 7 _Nemo Animatis Divellunt, Pars Duo_

Gwen heard the din of the march, felt the cadence and clamor of troop movement before she actually saw it. She was moving, but not of her own volition. She thought she was back in the prison cart, the vibrations she felt through her back seemed to also support this theory. A moan in her throat, a hand went to her jaw, caressed her cheeks, and her eyes opened slowly, then immediately squeezed shut, shards of daylight painfully shocking them, sending stabbing waves through her already throbbing head. That brief moment was enough to see flashes of bright colors. She wasn't in the prison cart. She blocked her eyes with the back of her hand, then cautiously opened them, gradually adjusting to the light.

Washed and in a clean dress that she didn't recognize, she tried to rise, but her head protested once again, pain radiating so intensely she saw white. She eased back onto the cushioned bench and exhaled a cleansing breath, trying to let the pain go with the outward puff of air. And it felt so good to be clean. It was a silly, fleeting thought, but even as they traveled along the river they had not been allowed to bathe all but once. And she had not been given enough time or sundries to adequately clean herself the way she was accustomed. She realized she'd become rather pampered living in Camelot and courted by royalty.

"What happened? Why am I here?"

An elderly woman known throughout the camp as Adelaide sat on the floor beside the bench she was laid upon, maternal yet cynical green eyes scrutinized her intently. Even with gray hair and fine lines in her face, she was beautiful. The hardship of life in a military host had not been unfavorable to her. "The Warlord brought you."

Gwen cleared her throat, the memories unraveling in the fog of her mind. "That woman who'd fallen, did anyone bury her?" Her throat suddenly seized, so dry it hurt. She licked her lips. It could so easily have been her.

Adelaide handed her a goblet of water. "I don't know. You're lucky to be alive." Her voice held a slight note of censure threaded through the kindness.

Guinevere squeezed her eyes shut. It was getting harder not to cry. Why had she tried to overtake Tebbe and run? She knew the consequences, yet she was not mentally or physically fit to carry out so daring an action. "I'm not alive. I can hardly think straight. I almost got myself killed," she admitted. "I don't know what to do." She searched Adelaide's eyes, looking so deeply she wanted to make sure she didn't miss anything. "How can you live like this? How can you stand it?" Adelaide took her time looking her up and down, the perusal slow and measured. Whatever she saw seemed to be acceptable enough since she gave the slightest of nods.

"You have spirit, child. Perhaps that is something else Helios sees in you. You are very pretty, you know." Adelaide touched Gwen's cheek tenderly and when her smile reached her eyes, Guinevere relaxed. "Have you learned nothing since you've been here? Your concern for others will get you killed. Slaves die every day and are replaced just as quickly. Such is the life of Southrons. It is something we all must learn to live with now. Some learn quicker than others. They are the ones that usually survive the longest. But you _are_ lucky. Having sorcerers these last few months have been a blessing and a curse for us. The apothecary healed your wounds."

"What?" She touched her lips and her jaw. Though minor, her injuries paled in comparison to most of the punishments dealt to slaves, but that didn't mean they didn't hurt. She was sure Tebbe had struck her hard enough to leave scars, but there was no evidence of a physical assault now. "I don't understand. Why did they do this? Why help some and not others?"

Adelaide shrugged. "Why not? It's just another level of control. You never know if you're going to live or die when the punishment starts."

"It also helps if the Warlord favors you," another woman said. Gwen's eyes shot to the source, a dark haired beauty a few years younger in bright and colorful satins and sheers. There were two more women seated on cushioned benches that she hadn't noticed before in the lavish and well-provisioned wagon. She didn't like that she hadn't noticed them, that her senses were dulled. With controlled effort, she swung her legs over the side of the bench and sat up.

"How long have I been here?"

"You were injured over a day ago. You slept through the night."

"What?" Being already small in stature, and since leaving Camelot, she had lost weight, living off of meager rations, few hours of sleep, and almost a week of hard labor. She was exhausted. Gwen had to admit that she was lucky to some extent to be alive, though how much of a life this would prove to be she was not certain. She was under no illusions as to why she had been spared.

She covered Gwen's hands now limp in her lap. "Once we make camp tomorrow, Helios will come for you." Gwen stiffened under her touch, her eyes shooting up to meet Adelaide's. "You mustn't be frightened, child. He's very gentle with those who don't resist him."

A stuttering gasp escaped, and the tears finally fell. Was this her fate? Her virtue taken by force or accorded under duress? To be part of a brute's harem until she was as old as Adelaide? If there was ever a time she needed Arthur, it was now. Or her brother. A knight. Someone to give her the strength she no longer held.

Arthur. "This is not how it's supposed to be," she cried.

Adelaide took both her hands now. "It never is. But it's up to you whether or not you survive this. Whatever life you had before is no more. This is it, so you must get used to it." She turned her head to speak to one of the other women when Gwen saw a small three-spiraled tattoo on her neck peeking from under her shawl. Adelaide was a Druid. If she had magic, why did she not use it to save herself? Was the camp so well guarded that not even her magic could help? Was there surely no escape? What color was left in Gwen's cheeks suddenly drained away.

"I think the purple salwar will be perfect for her." The Druid looked back at Gwen and smiled warmly again as if the young woman had nothing to worry about. "Now tell me what you are called, child."

…..

Arthur saw the look of utter disbelief on Merlin's face when he announced the marriage proposal with Princess Mithian in court, but he ignored it. He also ignored the fake smile Merlin reluctantly painted on his face seconds later. He knew his manservant would take this hard and would challenge his decisions, so he should not have been surprised later when Merlin accused him of still being in love with Gwen, believing it too soon for the man to enter into another relationship, let alone a marriage. It cut the King deeply, though, and in retaliation, Arthur heatedly threatened him with exile, so presumptuous of Merlin to supposing his heart and his needs.

The discipline of her entourage and display of their horsemanship kept his attention only until the princess lifted her veil. She was fair and beautiful and mesmerized Arthur with her porcelain white skin, large brown eyes that sparkled with mischief, and full pink lips that tried to restrain a small smile. She was as beautiful as the reports had claimed, and he couldn't keep his jaw from dropping from such a pleasant surprise.

Mithian again stunned him with her candid introduction, wasting no time letting him know how handsome he was to her. He was sure he blushed and was sure she saw it. She read his awkwardness and asked if they were to remain outside, her deflection spurring him to grasp her hand to present her to the crowd gathered on the steps, and to formally announce the feast in her honor tomorrow. Just from his few moments of interaction with the Nemeth princess, he was ready to believe this political union might work after all even as he tried so very hard to ignore the ache left behind by Guinevere.

By default of his own natural charisma and regal countenance, Arthur became the perfect charming host his father would have been proud of. Mithian was as lovely and gracious as the reports he received, noble-born, and from what he could see, noble-spirited. He didn't want to admit his attraction to her even though she was very opposite from the grace and beauty of Guinevere.

It was distasteful, he knew, but hard not to compare the differences between the two women. Mithian loved to hunt while Gwen would rather read a book or study the grain yields; Mithian openly displayed affection, so unabashed of human faults, where Gwen usually showed grace and humility for propriety's sake.

Mithian was fair and soft in appearance, from floating around the castle, no doubt, remembering this thought he'd shared with Agravaine a few months ago. Guinevere's body was firm from years of hard work, a body constantly in motion that built up muscle. He found himself missing the security of her strong embraces, and then immediately shuttered the thought away.

Mithian was desirable, and her differences disarmed him in ways he had not expected. Was it so wrong a reaction of a healthy male to physically need a woman? Was it not a perfectly normal response for someone in as lonely a position as he? Who, in their right mind, could resist the love apparent of a beautiful and perfect princess?

While Arthur did what was expected, his heart reeled against the forces of his human frailties. With all Mithian's differences, a spark of want had lit for her.

…..

In their first dusk-to-dawn mission in the Southron camp, Fredrick and Kolby did not come across the captives. Between the four of them, they were able to locate an armory, the number of battalion banners, most of the guard posts, and heavily guarded tents that beckoned a closer look at some point, if that was at all possible. More than likely, these were the Warlord's tents.

Over the course of their next two missions, they noticed routines, patterns, weak points, and strongholds. They found more armories and the number of guards protecting them, where the food sources and supplies were kept, that there were eight prison carts, not six. Ector and Maxwell found more guard posts, horse pens, and a few more heavily guarded tents. Most importantly, he detected four sorcerers, one of them very, very strong. Though there were murmurs of Morgana, she had not been seen by them.

Until the separation of the War Party into tunnels deep below the Trenton Mountain Range, they took no action to liberate the captives or anyone else left behind. At one-quarter the size, the squadron left to protect the nonessentials was still a formidable fighting force, and until the dual camps were combat ready and settled, Fredrick and Kolby took time to sort out the information they gathered. Kolby would be sending much of it to the King and Lord Gregory this very eve.

Each battalion left a small contingent of troops behind to protect their interests. A few of the heavily guarded tents belonging to the Scorpion battalion also remained behind, and it was there that Fredrick discovered what was left of the Longsteaders: only four women, and no Guinevere. For the first time since vowing to protect her, Fredrick was wholly discouraged, and solemnly realized he would not be able to keep the promise he'd made to John either. He did not look forward to writing to Sir Leon and Longstead tonight.

…..

Helios was a predator, a ferocious killer, designed by Fate to lead by brute force, threat and fear shadowing his every movement. Whatever rewards Morgana had promised were worth the arduous trek north, her sorcery and his knowledge of warcraft guaranteeing their success. The size of his army didn't matter. He'd made a study of the weaknesses of men in order to utilize them for his own gain. He and Morgana were much alike in that regard.

Beneath the Trenton Mountain Range, the war camp was functional in only a matter of hours, the network of tunnels quickly transformed into an advantageous and comfortable base of operations. It was a testament to the leadership, strategy, and control the warlord held. He was one day from the front gates of Camelot, and with no one in that supposed great city the wiser. He didn't pause a moment as he entered Guinevere's new chamber of rock.

"I was not mistaken." The Warlord stopped a respectful distance from her, seated in the candlelit cave, a servant adjusting a veil pulled back to reveal her face. Guinevere stood and turned to Helios, the maid attending her stepping into the shadows behind her. His hard armor now replaced with a colorful silk robe exposing his bare, muscular chest, he placed his hands on his hips and drank of her loveliness. "The filth of a pig sty cannot disguise true beauty." With an introduction, Helios bowed as gracefully as a Warlord could, stiffly and awkwardly. It would eternally lack the courtly grace of those she had known in Camelot.

She replied with a deep unwanted curtsey and her name, the rich purple silks and delicate sheers of the foreign clothes she wore divulging too much of her own body. She forced herself to smile, her tears long spent in the long wait for his summons. Lack of court manners or not, she was entirely at this man's mercy.

The warlord closed the distance between them with a confident saunter, his gaze roaming over her every surface voraciously before landing on her eyes. "I'm only sorry we had to meet under such circumstances. I had not intended to leave you so long in the labor force, the business of war can be…distracting. I thought I made it clear to my men that you were to be brought to me after a week. I'm sorry for all that you suffered."

Guinevere had never felt so exposed under the hungry scrutiny of the Southron Commander. It left her skin crawling and a shudder escaped her. She only hoped she could pass it off as the cold and not expose the depths of her revulsion. "My lord owes me no apology. I am accustomed to hard work. I suppose I must thank you for my life. The villagers were not so lucky."

"These are difficult times, Guinevere. I need new recruits, and the youth of today are not so enthusiastic. Who are you? What family do you come?"

He didn't believe her when she said she was no one of importance. She had to concede: that curtsey may have been a tad too refined for the pigsty he had plucked her from.

"No matter. I'm not concerned where a person comes from, only what they can become. Would you do me the honor of dining with me?"

Gwen was no fool, seeing through his flattery and show of tender mercy, knowing he was responsible for the brutal attack on Longstead and the death of her friend Erwan, and the sentiment may have sounded the same as Arthur's view of equality, but the motivation behind it was entirely different. "My lord, I am not worthy of such an honor." She did not want to be left alone with the man and was cautious for the sake of propriety. She wished she had the dagger Arthur had given her at what seemed so long ago.

"I insist. Now come." His final gesture before turning to leave was a quick bow of his head to her. She acknowledged with a tilt of her head and a smile thinly-veiled with apprehension and repulsion. Her curtsey was again forced.

…..

Guinevere dined with him in a cavern extravagantly filled with wax candles set on brass stands of various lengths. No mere tallow for this man it seemed. Many large pillows for seating surrounded a short table overflowing with meats, fruits, cheeses, and bread. A satin covered bed was tucked near the cavern edges. The candle-glow flickered an exotic dance in long strange shadows on dark walls that glistened in response. It was as uncomfortable as it could get, and would have been romantic to someone who cared. Not sure what she expected, she eased onto a pillow to sit opposite him.

She wove a life that did not exist, told him of a tale of flight after the brutal death of a family not her own. It had just come to her, flowed easily, and sounded so right for her circumstance. It appeared she had found her forte as a consummate liar since she had left Camelot. Each new background coming easier in the telling. She revealed nothing of her true identity save her name, which she supposed the warlord probably had known anyway. Her eyes casually flicked around the cave as she spoke, searching for a weapon, a tool, anything she could use to her advantage.

The guard who interrupted and announced that the Lady Morgana had arrived and waiting for an audience with the warlord did not distract the now-agitated Helios long enough for Guinevere to contain her shock. She was sure her former mistress and friend would be delighted to find her here, unarmed and helpless; and doubly sure she'd take pleasure using Gwen as a pawn to weaken Arthur further if she didn't kill her outright first.

Her eyes scanned the cave for anything that could be used as a weapon. Cutlery and candlesticks. Not much help there, though she insanely thought that maybe she could bludgeon Morgana with a candlestick before they overpowered her, or set fire to the silk cushions. They say burning wax is rather painful. The thoughts were tinged with hysteria and she forced herself to calm the panic that had triggered it, now not the time to fight. Guinevere needed to leave.

Feigning a sudden onset of fatigue, she used her recent injuries as an excuse and cited a sudden urgency for a need to rest. Helios spurred to protest, clearly not ready to end his time with her, but she pressed her need to save her life and assured him that the future would grant them time to be together. The sweetness of the tone that emerged from her throat sickened her. She sounded far too yielding and demure. Never in her life had she had to lie so much, but this was a matter of life or death.

The warlord held much power, but he submitted to her, having no reason not to believe her words to be true. Perhaps, there was something to what Fredrick had said about men acquiescing to her will after all. Escorted by a guard, she barely had time to veil her face, thanking the stars for the garment before Morgana rounded the passage and passed her without even a glance in her direction. Harlots, it seemed, were probably lower than servants to the High Priestess and not worthy of her gaze, she thought.

The escort being too far ahead of her was not prepared for the grapefruit-size rock that Gwen was able to pick up and smash into his head from behind, dropping him quickly. She dragged his body into the shadows, under the natural lip cut into the rock face not to be found for quite some time. She doubled back and perched upon a rock to adjust her line of sight on the warlord and the witch.

Morgana's noble breeding, her Old Religion training, and a touch of madness was a deadly mixture of poise, power, and unpredictability. One moment she embraced you as an old friend, the next she sucked the life out of you or struck you with an invisible fist before casting you away. She was a terrifying force, all she commanded feared her wrath and trembled in her presence. Gwen had known someone more gentle and forgiving in another life so long ago.

Gwen hugged the rock face tighter, clearly overhearing the words "Agravaine", "plans", "siege tunnels" and "Camelot" just before her perch crumbled under her shifting weight to betray her hiding spot. Alerting Morgana and Helios of her presence, she fled through the curiously deserted tunnels and back out into the moonlit woods. The few key words she heard was all she needed to know betrayal was once again pounding on the castle door. It took her less than a second to realize that threat of death for her betrayal, she would never leave them to suffer such a fate unprepared.

Using her knowledge of the forest and the lay of the land, Guinevere evaded the Southron search parties west of the mountain range throughout the night and came very near to the King's hunting grounds. Today was Ostara, and the forest would be bountiful with game to feed the hunter's heart of the King and his knights. She hoped the information she carried concerning the threat to the kingdom would jolt their adrenalin-spiked competition to a full stop and round them completely to prepare for an imminent attack from Morgana and the Southrons.

They were so close she could hear the horns and shouts of the beaters.

But Morgana, mounted on a brown warhorse, tracked her down, blocked her path, and dashed all her hopes with a blast so powerful it propelled Gwen against a tree and knocked her unconscious. The High Priestess dismounted, and knelt beside the maiden, a friend she had once treasured but had abandoned like the rest of them when it came clear whose side she favored.

The symbol of Arthur's love glinted between Gwen's breasts and a twinge of madness spiked in Morgana. She snatched the ring from around Gwen's neck, breaking the cord with an imperceptible flick of magic. The clamor of the hunting party drew closer and a sneer broke across Morgana's face. A fatal flaw for vengeance, she was unable to resist another enticing opportunity lapping at the edges of her sanity to wreck upon Arthur and Gwen. Her hatred of their bond blinded her from her mission in this moment. She dropped the ring where she stood and glared at Gwen.

"You want to see your precious Arthur, then so you shall." It amused her twisted sense of irony that Arthur, the great huntsman, would be the last thing Gwen may see, and as her killer no less.

The High Priestess spoke the transformation spell quickly, its magic covered Gwen in a soft golden glow, then absorbed into her body before disappearing altogether. Morgana made sure that if Gwen died she would turn back once more. It wouldn't do after all for Arthur not to know that he carried out his own decree. How far he would fall. It would break him to know he had killed his beloved.

…..

The spotted fallow doe was only one hundred paces from him, a shot so easy even Merlin would have no problems. So when he missed it, the confused, yet critical eye he gave the crossbow was laughable because it couldn't possibly have been his fault. He had perfect form, had it full in his sights, and he shouldn't have missed unless the crossbow was faulty. Had he damaged it in some way on this hunt? Arthur almost didn't hear Mithian's cheeky remark about his poor marksmanship when her aim was true and her bolt hit the doe in its hindquarter. Her shot didn't fell it, though, and there was very little blood to track. The king joined in the search, combing the forest floor for a trail of blood they knew would be close by.

A less perceptive hunter would have missed the glint that caught his attention. Arthur knelt in a comfortable squat and picked up a silver ring tied to a leather cord. When he recognized the object, Guinevere's matching wedding band, the world closed in around him, all the times he kissed her, held her, vexed her, laughed with her, and every other moment in between spontaneously flash within his mind. The trail lost all meaning.

What fickle chance had he of finding that ring, now discarded and forgotten on the forest floor in the middle of nowhere? What was Fate trying to tell him? Stricken, he looked to Merlin for answers he knew the servant wouldn't have.

Merlin kept the king's gaze only briefly, the guilt of constantly altering the destiny of nearly everyone within his sphere of influence one time or another made him jittery this time. His magic saw the doe for what it was and he used his magic to change the path of Arthur's crossbow bolt. That doe couldn't be killed, let alone be killed by Arthur. He did not react fast enough to save it from Mithian's quickness and sharp shooting, though. He hadn't known to be prepared for such marksmanship.

As if it were possible for her to be there, Arthur's eyes search the woods for Gwen expectant, the band's condition far too clean and polished to have been exposed to the elements all this time, so she must be nearby. He looked once again at the cord to see it torn just below the knot, and his fear deepened. He couldn't help think the worst. If it was ripped from her neck, was she injured? Or God forbid…dead? The thought crashed into him like the waves of a raging sea colliding violently against rock and he gulped for air that cinched his throat.

For one brief moment, his guard went down and he couldn't control the shaking of his hands, the jab in his gut, or the tightness in his chest. Who was he deceiving? Despite Mithian's very obvious and not so obvious charms, he knew that he would never give her more than the physical act of love; he would care for her and respect her, but he would never wholly love her as a husband should love his wife. He would rather not marry than to live like that. Guinevere had, like a thief in the night, stolen his heart and had yet to give it back. As soon as his mind caught up with his emotions, Arthur called an end to the sport.

The hunt was over, and Mithian was thoroughly confounded. Arthur carried something in his hand, but it was too small to see what it was. She looked to Merlin for an explanation of the king's erratic behavior, but from the sorrowful look on Merlin's face, she could tell he had no answers for her. It was too personal to be shared with a stranger, she knew, and intrigue was a game played in every court.

"Leon!" Arthur barked, approaching his riding horse. Merlin was right. He was almost always right, Arthur thought. He had been a fool to believe he could just move on as if she had never existed. He loved Guinevere despite what she did, and though he may not be ready to forgive her, he still needed to make sure she was safe. The first knight rushed to his king's side, Arthur's crossbow still in his hands. Arthur knew what Leon was doing. He was checking its calibration trying to figure out how the king could have missed hitting that doe. "What news from Fredrick?"

"Last report was that the Southrons were still across the bord—"

"I meant about Guinevere!" He growled through his teeth, his eyes dark and bearing into the knight, his lips thinned with undeserved derision. He remembered, remembered with harsh clarity that he'd told Leon not to mention where she was, not to ask, not to even say her name. From his periphery, he could see Mithian and Merlin approaching. With a cleansing intake of breath and a forceful mental shove to calm his fury, he asked, "Where is she?"

"In Longstead, Sire." In that moment, Arthur looked ferocious, but Leon was too accustomed to the unpredictable moods of kings, at how fast they changed, or how dangerous they turned to be shaken by them even if it was aimed at him. He'd had many years to toughen his hide and gird his nerves. "She's safe."

"I fear you're wrong." The king held up the wedding band, and Leon swayed, recognizing it, knowing instinctively what finding it without its owner meant. "Dispatch riders to Longstead immediately. I want a full account within three days, Leon. Use carrier pigeons at Chime if you must, but I need word of her safety _now_." No more words, just a nod, and he knew even as Leon turned away it would be done with the utmost urgency.

"Arthur," Mithian said, coming alongside the king and glancing between him and the retreating Leon. "What has happened?"

His features turned as cool as the blue of his eyes before facing the princess. "Mithian, I must apologize. Something grave has just come to my attention." He didn't mean to sound so diplomatic, they being so companionable lately, but it was too late. "If you please, we must return to the Citadel." He held out his hand, and when she placed hers into his, he escorted her to her horse.

"As you wish, my lord." The intrigue perplexed her, but good breeding had her holding her tongue and mounting her mare.

Arthur climbed his Chestnut and steered it toward his first knight. There was something prowling in the back of his mind and finally manifested to the forefront. "Find out why we've heard nothing from our scouts."

"Sire, they've reported nothing out of the ordinary." It wasn't so much that they hadn't heard anything from the scouts. It was because they hadn't heard anything noteworthy or dire from the scouts. They had received regular posts from carriers though fewer than expected for this time of year.

Arthur hummed, his lips pressed tightly, the gnawing not quite going away. His horse in the lead, they rode back toward the Citadel in silence, his thoughts on nothing but Guinevere.

…

A/N: _Nemo Animatis Divellunt, Pars Duo_ , _Latin_ , Let No Man Tear Asunder, Part 2


	8. Nemo Animatis Divellunt, Pars Tribus

A/N: Here is the last installment of Hunter's Heart (retitled to reflect the accurate chapter continuation). Thank you for all the follows and favs. Many thanks to larasmith (who requested Gwen's captivity backstory), and KIMMIKY and tubahayes for without I'd still be working on this one. Enjoy!

I don't own Merlin. The new characters are mine, though.

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 8 _Nemo Animatis Divellunt, Pars Tribus_

…..

As if she was dreaming, she saw Arthur, so tall and confident in chain and crimson. She missed him fiercely, the security of his embrace, the comfort of his voice, his tender kiss so long not felt. She could not resist running to him, but there was something unusual in her gait. Tears fell so fast she could hardly see. Most importantly, there was something dire that the king needed to know. But it was as if she saw everything through a haze, sluggish and gray as the fog on a winter morning. Everything would be fine if only she could reach them.

The dream turned to nightmare when Arthur aimed his crossbow unswervingly at her. Did she mean so little to him that he'd execute her himself? She tried to call to him, but no words would come. And then he fired.

He missed. And she fled into the woods more instinctual than in fear, though there was that too. Arthur claimed he could kill a chicken from a thousand paces so how could he have missed? He was as expert a marksman as he was a swordsman. Was that intentional? A warning shot to make her leave once again? The theory seemed to fit a moment later when something sharp pierced her thigh, sending her to down on all fours.

It burned to her core, but she managed to regain her footing and limped as fast as she was able deeper into the woods. How they did not find her again she did not know, the thicket providing her cover before darkness overtook her. Some time through the night, the spell having run its course released its bond on the wounded maiden, and she was once again Guinevere.

It was morning when she woke, that unnatural fog of doubt clearing in her mind and her vision as she focused on the worried face of Merlin looking down at her. Her wound bandaged, she didn't hesitate to grasp him in a deep hug, so happy to see his friendly face after so long, not even questioning how he had found her when so many others had passed her, oblivious.

She told him of the enchantment, Morgana's intentions, and of Agravaine's treachery. She told him everything she knew about the Southrons. The number of sorcerers she wasn't sure, she only knew of two, the one who healed her, and Morgana. She was sure there were more. Adelaide had hinted at such.

Merlin listened in awe, amazed of her loyalty and love for Camelot in spite of what she went through, and of the king's decree of death upon stepping foot into the capitol. He urged her to return to the castle with him. To Arthur. But she would not, even when he had insisted that Arthur wanted to see her. Merlin knew he would not get her to change her mind, so they sat in silent defiance, daring the other to look away first.

Merlin was calculating; he had a bracelet to find. He knew that few could do what she had done without using magic. Having the ability to break a powerful spell alone and discard the cursed object without dying is very rare. It appeared she hadn't realized what she just gone through or the strength of her own convictions. Her tears of remorse, her virtuousness, and her love for Arthur overcame magic so dark and vile it would have consumed a weaker soul. She paid dearly at another's transgressions, and she was still paying for them, yet again victim of Morgana's cruelty, having been enchanted twice now. Merlin was staring at her with such veneration and sorrow that she shivered with regard to his scrutiny when she noticed.

"Merlin, what is it?"

"You are…amazing, Gwen. That's all. Um…Well…" There was a moment's hesitation before he blurted out, "Before you were banished, did you have…a bracelet?"

"Oh, Merlin…" Her shoulders slumped, the pain of a fragile heart crossed her face. Truly, was there no end to her suffering? After what she had gone through since her banishment, she didn't need to be reminded of why she was here in the first place. She was tired, ashamed, her defenses crumbled, her voice cracked through the answer. "Yes. A gift from Lancelot. I threw it away…. In the cell. Why does it matter?"

Here he was causing her more pain, but Gaius was right. He should not give false hope, so he lied. He had become so good at it that he sometimes believed them himself. "It…doesn't. Listen, can you get to Ealdor?"

Gwen was free, and for the first time the gravity of it hit her solidly, and she could think of her future once again. She had lost everything when the Southrons raided Longstead, no need to return there at this time. And it was so far away while Ealdor was much closer. Wherever her path led, she would send word to John and Mary and check on their well-being.

"The Southrons and Morgana are so close, Merlin. I'm injured, no weapons, not even a dagger. And look at these clothes. I'm freezing. I don't think I'd make it to Escetir under these circumstances."

"Here." Merlin removed his coat and wrapped it around her. The subtle spell he had placed on it for himself to retain his body heat even on the coldest days would hold true for her. "Stay here, I'll be back in a few hours with a horse and provisions." He placed both his hands on her shoulders. "Gwen, despite everything that has happened, Camelot hasn't been the same without you. And neither has Arthur."

"It doesn't matter. I can never return. I can never face him."

"I'm so sorry, Gwen."

"Just go, please. The sooner you're on your way, the sooner I can be on mine." It was not a very nice thing to say to her friend, especially since he was only trying to help. But she was tired, and bringing up Lancelot at a time like this, well…there would never be a good time to bring him up ever.

It didn't take long for Merlin to return with more than he promised. The bouquet of white and purple flowers he handed his friend brought the tears. Beltane, the festival of love and hope was in a few weeks, the Mayday celebration of loved ones and friends exchanging flowers and other tokens of affection. It would be the first time she would miss it. The last four years spent with Arthur were splendid, even in its secrecy. He always did something special for her. Now they would be separated and alone, and only because of her. Merlin wrapped her in his arms and let her cry for as long as she needed.

He placed yet another spell around her when she wasn't looking, this one for protection, while she changed into a tunic and breeches that were two sizes too big for her. Gwen ripped strips of cloth from the sheer and satin clothes to belt the trousers and sash the tunic. She laced up her pant legs from ankles to calf, and arms from wrists to elbow, tying down the loose fabric in a lattice pattern for practical form and comfort. Merlin couldn't help but smile at how quickly she thought on her feet and remain a lady at the same time. She was so beautiful no matter what she wore.

He sent Guinevere north through the forest, then east across the Trenton avoiding the Southrons encroaching from the south. It would take her much longer to reach Ealdor that way, but he would know where she was, that she would be cared for by his mother, safe in Lot's kingdom at best. He found a little peace knowing that.

…..

Cyr was extremely devoted to ensuring communication flowed flawlessly and without complication around the kingdom, his pigeon post set securely at Castle Chime, a fortified garrison nestled at the southeast base of the Mountains of Isgard. Well-built with three levels of stone, it housed the local lord's family, servants, and the garrison of about fifty knights. Four towers guarded the corners and perches for archers were well-placed between them on the walkways and battlements. As one of the largest in the realm, the stronghold could fend off a small invading army.

From years of service, Cyr could recognize at a glance the seals of the nobility of Camelot and of the surrounding kingdoms that relied on the swift delivery of their missives. Most commoners or peasants could not afford such a luxury, but the marks of a few high ranking commoners came through every once and a while. Still, it was important to know the "who" in order to select the pigeon for "where."

Cyr was amiable, but most still kept him at an arm's distance, his close association with the unclean, but essential, birds making him somewhat undesirable company. Cyr didn't mind, and in fact, it was perfect, having being in a position to control the flow of information.

The influx of letters to the King of Camelot had not slowed, and the urgency of the rider from Clarwick adding to the mix. Except this rider had not come from the direction of Clarwick as had the ones a few days ago, having come from the east instead, and that made Cyr a little wary. He fingered the letters subconsciously—one to the king and one to the knight, Leon—as he discussed with his pigeons which one of them was to make the one hour trip that would otherwise take a horse and rider nearly three days to travel the same distance. The rider heard this conversation before having entrusted many other letters to Cyr over the years but this time stated he'd wait for the birds to set flight due to the urgency of its contents.

Cyr was very good at what he did. Just like the message from Lord Gregory a few days ago addressed to the king, he quickly chose a pigeon and inserted the king's letter in the tube attached to its leg before launching it. He chose another pigeon for Leon's letter and set it loose. Satisfied, the rider placed a few coins in Cyr's hand, bade him farewell, and left.

Cyr was also an extremely devoted follower of the High Priestess, Morgana, a learned sorcerer of great skill and in a position to keep her one step ahead of her enemies. Just like the letter from Lord Gregory a few days ago, because the courier waited for assurance, he switched the real letters with blank rolls before inserting them into the tubes. This sleight of hand was a trick so well executed that even the toughest scrutiny could not detect the switch. The pigeons flew not to the desired destination since their home was Chime, but rather trained to return to the coop after a short flight around the countryside. Using magic, he would copy the important letters for Morgana, and then forge the original parchment with misinformation before setting the pigeons on their proper course. Another bird would be sent to Morgana bearing her copy of important information.

Now, pulling the two letters concealed in his sleeves, he chose the one for the king. With an exaggerated wave of his hand, he chanted a few ancient words, and the letters lifted from the parchment without breaking the seal. It read:

 _Your Grace, The King of Camelot_

 _Sire, it is with dire urgency to confirm the advancement of Southrons under the command of the Warlord, Helios. Troops estimated around five thousand. Marching northwest between the rivers Lark and Ouse. Four sorcerers aid them, only rumors of Morgana. Will be upon Citadel six days hence. Clarwick to liberate captured citizens. We are yours to command, pledging to aid Your Royal Highness and to protect the realm with our lives._

 _Your Loyal and Obedient Servant, Sir Kolby Wallace, Knight of Clarwick_

This letter troubled him having so much detail about his mistress' ally. It spoke of infiltration or a traitor within. He would scry to her the details after forging a new one to mislead the king, misinformation to keep his gaze on Escetir than on his own. Cyr eyed the other missive, unsure of its importance, then pulled its words from the parchment just the same.

 _Sir Leon, Longstead raided by Southron Invaders. Erwan killed. Our Lady taken captive. Unable to locate. Warlord Helios and five thousand soldiers en route to Camelot with four sorcerers, perhaps Lady Morgana. Tracking Southrons. Will not rest until my Lady is safe. Inform the King. -Fredrick_

He grunted. This one would be trickier to forge. His eye flashed gold, the letter going up in flames instead. He decided the only thing worth mentioning about that one to the High Priestess was that the Southrons were being tracked. Sir Leon would never find out about the fate of his lady.

….

The King was being difficult again. Over the years, Merlin had seen two distinct sides to his monarch. There were times when he could be thoughtful, courageous, and wise. Surprising him with his words of encouragement and friendship, usually buried beneath backhanded compliments and bantering insults. They were the best of times in the Warlock's eyes, most especially because he'd had some small hand in the making of them.

But then there was the other side. Where the brat his father raised emerged and he endured Arthur's foul moods, his threats, and even the occasional physical assault, so was his way of releasing some of the pressure of ruling a kingdom; other times it was just His Royal Pratness surfacing to torture his manservant for pleasure. It was never ending, understandable sometimes, the stress the young royal often faced, but his often times unkind and ungrateful strikes at Merlin still stung, especially now.

Since finding Gwen's wedding band forsaken in the forest, Arthur confined himself to his chambers, ignoring the effect it was having on his visiting dignitary, Princess Mithian. It was a fit, pure and simple, and it reminded Merlin of those early days right after Gwen's banishment when the king was inconsolable and lashed out at anyone who strayed near anything he did not want to hear.

Since finding Gwen in the forest, Merlin had a hard time following his king's orders to not disturb him, entering the royal chambers unannounced and uninvited. His defiance angered Arthur, and when Merlin claimed to have vital information that put the kingdom at risk, the king's temper frayed yet further.

Accusing Agravaine of stealing the plans to the siege tunnels to aid Morgana and the Southrons was enough to send a now enraged Arthur over the edge, the notion of his uncle betraying him somehow preposterous, as if Merlin had never accused anyone of anything without good reason.

Finding the plans securely in the vaults seemingly undisturbed didn't help support his case, incensing Arthur enough to unequivocally dismiss Merlin's further suspicions with the threat of exile. In less than a week, it was the second time banishment was hurled at him from the king. Merlin had expected it, of course, but Arthur had usually listened first before dismissing it as nonsense, and it put the Warlock in as dark a state as Arthur, though his displays of temper were much more controlled and subdued than the king. After all, he hadn't the luxury of being able to fight back with impunity. He'd learned long ago to never let his true anger show.

He, more than anyone, knew magic could create perfect copies of documents and none would be the wiser. He'd done much the same with Lancelot's forged family crest, hadn't he? He left the mapmaker's workshop angry and frustrated at once again being dismissed through lack of evidence that Arthur would believe otherwise and made way for the dungeons, a far better place to be with its dark and cruel history than with the king right now.

He'd spent many nights in some of these cells since from his first few days in Camelot for one reason or another and was sure there would be occasion for more "visits" in the future. It was just his destiny, he thought crazily. Was it insane of him to think on those bygone days in the cells with nostalgia at their relative simplicity? When punishment was a night in the cold dark and was done come morning. Since Arthur had become king, his life had become infinitely harder and the prison so much bigger. But still, a cell is a cell. He pushed the gloomy thoughts away with determination. He had a purpose and a quest to fulfill.

It wasn't hard to find, now that he knew where to look. Gwen had not been placed in the cells for nobles and royals as Lancelot had. Instead, she was thrown in one of the least-used blocks for Camelot's indigent. Agravaine probably took great pleasure in ordering that. The upstart servant queen-to-be brought low at last.

He felt the pull of its magic the closer he came to the cell, an ethereal wisp of something special growing into something dark. It was clear and unadulterated power, no longer shrouded by the natural spark of magic from the life force of people. He opened the cell door and walked straight to the source, a silver bracelet nearly covered by straw in a corner, its engravings fine and delicate. It would have appealed to Gwen, he thought. Simple and pretty.

He reached for it but stopped short of picking it up, the dark magic coursing through it lapped at the magic in his fingertips. It was more powerful than he expected. The gástlufe onsang was meant to arouse old feelings and waken Gwen's forgotten or buried desire, exposing her heart once again to the infatuation Lancelot had once instilled within her. What kind of effect would it have on someone without those feelings? Or someone with feelings just as deeply for another? Freya. Merlin removed his scarf and wrapped the bracelet within it, not wanting it to touch his essence.

He had the proof he needed to help Gwen and he pondered how much he should tell Arthur as he made his way up from the dungeons. Arthur was bound to ask questions he was not prepared to answer, so revealing too much could expose his magic and jeopardize his own life. Could he tell the king it took magic to discover that Lancelot was a shade? A vile shadow of their honored friend used by Morgana against Gwen. Who somehow tricked her into his arms by using an enchanted bracelet. He knew Arthur would move mountains to get Gwen back if she was found without fault. So finding her injured, alone so close to home, and now still running for her life was two-edged. Guilt would probably eat at him equally upon realizing his mistake of banishing her in the first place, perhaps making him ineffectual to fight a war against Morgana and her forces.

Merlin knew Gwen's whereabouts. But if Agravaine had somehow managed to get the siege tunnel plans to Morgana, danger was upon them and Gwen was probably safer outside these walls. Though he hated to admit it, it would be one less thing for Arthur to worry about, his attention fully focused on protecting the kingdom.

He had tried to warn Arthur about Agravaine's treachery, only to be threatened with exile again from the riled up royal. One more grand mistake and there would be nothing to stop the king from making good on his threat. But not telling Arthur was just as bad as telling him, and Merlin would feel his wrath as never before. Either way, battles awaited the king on all fronts. The imminent one had to be fought first, though. The harder battles with pride, trust, and love would have to wait. He only hoped he would listen to reason when it came time to tell him unpalatable truths when the time came.

By the time Merlin made it into his shared chambers with the aged physician, he looked as if his own heart had been crushed. He wordlessly held the bracelet out to Gaius not even needing to say what it was about. Gaius knew him well enough by now and he would be able to feel the waves of magic emanating from it as well as he could. It took one look for him to take it all in and all it would mean in the future.

"For the sake of us all," Merlin said quietly, "hide it."

…..

He had to tell her himself. He couldn't dissolve the arrangement officially without first informing the princess in person. He'd seen the hope in her eyes, though he had seen even more in those brown pools of desire, and part of him had wanted it too, if only out of need. Yet finding Gwen's ring so unexpectedly earlier that day reeled Arthur back to a reality where only one truth stuck solidly in his gut when it did. He loved Guinevere with all his heart, and he could not marry Mithian even if it was meant to secure and strengthened both kingdoms for many generations to come; even if he never saw his Guinevere again. No one could hold his heart as she had. No one could compare. He had lied to himself, to Mithian, forcing himself to love the princess as if she had been the answer to his woes.

"Mithian, there is something I must tell," he said, the food spread before them hardly touched by either for worries known only to themselves. Arthur had chosen his privy chambers, the small table offering a respectable, if not intimate, distance between them. Mithian's spark had dimmed just a little since the hunt, though she was still just as beautiful. "I thought…I thought I was doing what was best for the kingdom…"

"And what was best for you," she teased, daring to reach for his hand and covering his with hers. She felt his minutia reflex from her touch, and when he looked at her, something was missing, and replaced with a kind of sadness. "For us both, Arthur. This treaty will allow our kingdoms to prosper like never before. There will be peace in Gedref; our union will ensure that it lasts forever."

"I've misled you." Arthur cut into her vision like a razor's edge into fresh, morning skin, cold and biting, though he gently withdrew his hand. There would be no easy way to dispense this news, and time was waning for subtlety. In all honesty, they had not spoken much on their marriage itself, expectations, wants, desires, though he expected that she'd do whatever he wanted, whether she desired it or not.

"Arthur, what is this about? Our agreement—"

"—Has changed. I can't marry you, Mithian."

Her brow creased, confusion on her face. "I don't understand."

"My kingdom is my life, and I will die for it one day, of that I'm sure. But until then, I cannot be the king I need to be without the woman I love by my side."

"So this is about love," she scoffed, standing abruptly, her eyes blazing with indignation. She turned her back to him. "How naive you are."

Arthur followed suit, though with a slow rise to his feet. He took the few steps to reach her, and calmly turned her towards him. "Would you rather I pretend? To be a 'loving husband'? Knowing that in my heart, I'm wishing for another? That every time I kiss you—" And on the spur he drew her into his arms and kissed her, for the first time, pouring as much as he could of himself into it so they would both know for certain. He parted from her and stared into her hooded, tearful eyes. "—that I'll be kissing her. You'll resent me for the rest of my life."

Mithian gasped, tears falling unwanted down her cheeks. It was still a sweet kiss and his embrace was so tender, but it was not meant for her pleasure. He was bound to another in heart and soul, and she would only have his body. That, too, would not truly be hers either. A hand went to her mouth, then with the other delivered a hard strike across his face. "How dare you. I—I…"

Arthur absorbed the slap with humility, dropping his eyes only once before finding hers again. "You deserve so much better, Mithian. I'm sorry for what I put you through."

She lifted her chin, all dignity and grace and much intimidation. "I think you shall be sorrier for what Nemeth will do to you. Sleep well, King Arthur."

Arthur signed deeply after Mithian left, swiping his face, then running fingers through his hair. It was done. He'd humiliated the princess, breached a long awaited and much needed treaty that may escalate to war. What more could he give for a woman he may never see again? And if he did, no—when he did find her, could he forgive her?

…..

Mithian descended the steps and walked past the king without so much as a glance in his direction, her face as rigid as her countenance.

"Princess," Arthur said, stopping her in her tracks though she did not turn toward him. "Forgive me."

Mithian faced him, gracelessly shoving on her gloves as she struggled to maintain her composure. "The time for words is over, Sire." Her voice was as chilled as the mid-Spring wind that blew through the courtyard, her soft veil lifting behind her in the breeze, as did the train of his ceremonial red cape.

"I understand," he said, stepping closer to her. Arthur had only one chance left for a peace now, if not then, a cease to hostilities between the two kingdoms at least. "And it is for this reason that I hereby offer you and your descendents all the disputed lands of Gedref." His offering would end their ageless feud once and for all, but would it be enough still to restore the dignity of princess and the honor of a king.

"You would give up your ancient claims?" she challenged, not believing such valuable territory to be handed over so effortlessly after all this time and strife.

"I have no desire for war. Or to—grieve you any more than I already have."

Mithian near scoffed at the personal effect of his decision on her, but returned to the business at hand. "Such an offer cannot be rushed into."

As he had done with their engagement. They had been in negotiations for months over Gedref, but the decision to bind the treaty with marriage had only taken him a week. It was foolish, maybe even desperate. "I've had my scribe draw up an agreement." He withdrew a scroll from behind his back, the parchment moist from his sweaty palm. "If you're happy with the terms, I'll sign forthwith."

"And if I refuse?" A true politician, but Arthur would not be drawn into a play for power. Not now.

"It's all I can offer. I do so most humbly." The king lowered his head and his eyes in a bow of respect, then looked her in the eyes as he held out the scroll with two hands. It seemed a long wait, but after a moment of thoughtfulness, Mithian reached for the scroll.

If perplexity were named beauty, then it would be Mithian now, her brow creased ever so slightly, her face alight with renewed curiosity. "Tell me...who is it that trumps a princess?"

Arthur pursed his lips and slightly shook his head. "No one." That was a lie, and she knew it, too. "And everyone," he amended.

Well, there was that, no princess or queen to compete, but it didn't matter now. She still did not have the man. "What great family is she from?"

This time Arthur bit his lip, an amused look on his face in anticipation of her reaction. "None. She's the daughter of a blacksmith."

Mithian nearly lost all decorum. Neither princess nor queen or even a noble, but a commoner who'd ensnared his heart. A commoner! "And for her you would risk your kingship? Your kingdom?" She couldn't keep the shock and condemnation from her voice.

Arthur looked at her as a man in love, not faltering at her words. He'd heard it before, would hear it again, but there was no greater thing than the love of Guinevere in this moment. "Without her, they're worth nothing to me." It was the second time he said he'd give up the kingdom for her, and for that he was certain to what extreme he would take to have just her.

Mithian looked upon him with considerable astonishment, before lowering her eyes in disbelief.

"Hm," she said, looking up at the handsome king that was almost hers, and she understood. "I would give up my own kingdom to be so loved." She tried to smile, but so much sadness came through instead. "Farewell, Arthur."

"Farewell, Princess."

Mithian managed a bittersweet smile, and even as she turned and walked away, he had been so sure of his feelings for Gwen that he'd forgotten all about her betrayal. The hard truth was that he still loved her, he ached for her with every fiber of his being, and there was no getting round that. Mithian's final words echoed through the empty cavern his heart had been hollowed into. So loved, and so conflicted, he was still unsure whether he could trust Gwen, or forgive her. Those feelings were too raw for that side of him, the open wound still a ways from healing. How much sorrow must a Pendragon suffer?

…..

A/N: _Nemo Animatis Divellunt, Pars Tribus,_ Latin, Let No Man Tear Asunder, Part 3


	9. By Any Means Necessary

A/N: Hi Everyone! Apologies for the long wait, but real life does interrupt at times and other things become more important. Many thanks again to the ever artistic and talented KIMMIKY for helping to bring out the best in me and the story. Thanks to tubahayes for keeping me on the straight and narrow. This one is nice and long, and I hope you enjoy. As usual, I don't own Merlin.

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 9 By Any Means Necessary

It was tradition, an old ritual, and something that was rumored the New Religion frowned upon. But the Festival of Beltane was so entrenched in society that the king continued to allow them to celebrate pagan festivals though he remained strict against the practice of pagan magic. He didn't mind this ritual actually, the true meaning of it not lost on him since he was in love. Had been in love. It was one of the few celebrations he had actually looked forward to. Now, misery was the company he kept this year. The solitude weighing heavily upon him as he remembered with bittersweet fondness those previous years.

The first Beltane with Guinevere as his secret lover, he dressed as a commoner, hood and all, and danced with her around the bonfire in the section where the servants were celebrating, giving her a handful of flowers and a courtly bow afterward, before needing to leave and disappearing into the crowd. They met later that night, after the royal feast, with timid embraces and awkward kisses, and for her to give him fresh picked flowers.

The second year, Guinevere had to serve during the royal feast, and Arthur had a hard time concentrating on anything except her. She wore some of the flowers he'd given her earlier twined in her hair, and around her wrists. He watched her move gracefully around the room and she had noticed him watching her and blushed from the twinkle in his eyes and the smile he gave only to her. They didn't get to dance that year. But he would see her later after the feast, and make it up to her. He'd had dinner waiting for her in her home with five more bunches of flowers and a spool of purple thread.

The third year he had filled every corner of Guinevere's house with flowers of every color and variety available that time of year, including bluebells and gillyflowers. Gwen thought it was very romantic and they embraced in a hug and shared soft, sensual, kisses. And then a bee buzzed somewhere nearby and her eyes snapped open during the kiss. He hadn't factored the amount of pollen all the flowers created in her tiny home nor all the critters they would attract. As much as he tried to fight it, twitching his nose and stifling the sniffs, he couldn't stop the sneezes. Gwen left him to his own and grabbed her broom, swinging wildly at the bees. His sneezing fit and her swinging frenzy, he stepped right into a perfect swat that knocked him in the head. He said "Ow" and she said "Oh" and he grabbed his head and then her hand and swiftly led her out into the cool fresh air. After they calmed down from their uncontrollable laughing fit in an alley behind her house, he sent Merlin in to deal with the flowers. And the bees. He'd never laughed so heartily with any of his noble admirers.

Last year, he took her on a picnic in a field of bluebells, the riotous color stretching for miles. It was a cold spring morning, the pollen was low, and they had spent most of the time huddled under blankets in each other's arms, the closeness of their bodies and the passion of their kisses heating the very air they breathed. It was so much better than the previous year, and he didn't want it to end. But his father expected him to commence the Maypole festivities at the eleventh hour, so it was probably for the best for that to end. Everything about her made it near impossible to hide his desire for her. That day was no different. He had to vow a long time ago to uphold his chivalry with her even in the heat of the moment. A woman's virtue was a gift to her husband and it was something they both treasured, and was worth waiting for. He had planted a deep kiss on her lips, then they had packed up and returned to the castle.

This year he had planned to take her to Tintagel by the sea, and they would have celebrated their love in holy matrimony.

This year, until the heartbreak of her betrayal, he had courted her properly, openly, when her status changed and she'd become a lady of standing being the sister of a knight. He took great pleasure in knowing how much it irritated some of the nobles but had greater pleasure in knowing how much it meant to her to finally be able to follow some semblance of custom, to not have to hide away as if ashamed.

Before Uther died, Arthur had told his father of their courtship and his deep-seated desire to marry her. Under normal circumstances, there would have been fierce opposition to Arthur's choice of wife and future queen. Uther had banished her once upon realizing Arthur's passionate feelings for the servant and sentenced her to death on two other occasions when the use of sorcery pointed to her. Their history had been stained with dislike and distrust. As it stood, Uther had been devoid of all fight and vigor and mind. In a way, Arthur would have preferred a row with his father rather than no reaction at all. It felt dishonest somehow to finally reveal their intentions when his father could no longer oppose it.

With dinner complete and a goblet in his hand, his gaze wandered around the Great Hall disinterestedly. The din of laughter and music filling the hall to the rafters and an air of gaiety hung in the space, but it meant nothing to him. They would have been married by now, and he would have kissed her every chance given him today, no matter who might have seen. He could admit to himself that he missed Gwen with a fierce passion, and while friends and lovers, husbands and wives around him enjoyed the celebration in each other's presence, and in some cases, in each other's arms, he was reminded of his constant companion of late: utter and bitter loneliness.

He missed the chance to name her, his Guinevere. Why he called her that, he didn't know. It sounded so possessive, so insecure right now, and someone else could very well be calling her that by now. That thought brought a soft, almost inaudible moan to his throat, and he took a longer, desperate gulp from the goblet. Merlin was there near instantaneously and refilled his cup.

He kept bringing her up, and somehow Arthur didn't mind too much anymore. He was conflicted by her constant presence in his thoughts anyway. She had the softest hair, he could almost feel it running through his fingers again like the most expensive silk. He wanted to taste the sweetness of her lips, but he had to settle for the tang of the wine instead. When propriety slipped, and her freckles darkened in a blush, he would never be able to tease her mercilessly about it again. Arthur would never be able to hold her, just to draw comfort or strength for his sake or her own. Was someone else holding her or giving her flowers? These thoughts darkened Arthur's mood even further. This was the worst Beltane he'd ever experienced including the ones before he ever knew her.

The letter from Fredrick had arrived the very day Princess Mithian left, a week ago now. The news was brief, yet favorable. Guinevere was safe in Longstead, so it read, the Southrons having moved north and deeper into Lot's kingdom, away from his borders. Arthur should have been relieved if that were so. His gut feeling and intuition were telling him otherwise. How did her wedding band come to be so close to the city? Why was there evidence of it being forcefully torn from around someone's neck, presumably Gwen's? Had someone stolen it from her? Did they hurt her? There had been no other news and his thoughts raced with so many questions leading him to darker and more sinister places. Was sending Fredrick and Erwan to look after her enough?

The alarm in Gwaine's voice sobered them all and was far more foreboding than the warning bell that accompanied it. The Southrons were inside the city gates, the lower town alight with bonfires of devastation and death, instead of bonfires of love and hope that was Mayday. The parties were over and destruction now reigned.

The rush of adrenaline brought the warrior to the forefront, Arthur barking out orders before taking up arms. Knights at his back, he slashed at the invaders already filling the halls of his castle, repelling them, keeping them away from the inner chambers he'd sent everyone else to, including Merlin.

He supposed it was a lucky strike if lucky meant getting the full blade of a sloppy downward slash that broke his ribs from the force of the blow, instead of slicing through his mail. At least, he wouldn't bleed out. To add insult to his injury, he saw with his own eyes and scarcely believed Agravaine marching with arrogance alongside Morgana, a man he assumed to be the warlord, Helios, and far too many aggressors for the king to do anything about. Arthur was furious and rather ashamed to admit he'd been wrong yet again.

It wasn't just about losing Camelot now; his family plotted against him once more, making him feel like a helpless fool in the process.

….

It would take all of the present company of knights to rescue the captives, and a vow of secrecy made amongst them was the only way to do it effectively. Maxwell agreed very reluctantly to reveal his magic to the rest of the knights, putting his life in the hands of his fellows, which led to a much-heated argument. The knights immediately started speaking over each other, their voices rising in a cacophony of confusion and disagreement. Several baseless accusations were made, making Maxwell wish the forest floor would open and swallow either himself or those who spoke out against him, just so he would hear no more. Some were angry, and many felt betrayed to varying degrees by Maxwell, having fought by his side for many years, and his having magic all this time. Everyone was looking at each other with extreme concern because the trust had been jeopardized. How many more would there be amongst them with such a secret, they wondered?

Kolby had hand-picked these men, some having been with him since his promotion, most since his childhood, all having proved a fierceness for justice that ran true like his own. And it helped that their lord did not feel as strong as the king regarding sorcery, often dismissing accusations against people that used magic when hard evidence was lacking. Those where he had no choice, he always sent to the king to mete out his royal justice, though he sometimes hated himself afterward. Over the years, Kolby hoped that some of them had learned to appreciate Gregory's fairness in knowing that not all magic was an attack on the crown.

The arguments continued for some time, and then all but died when Maxwell with much prodding from his fellows humbly retold accounts of when he saved almost every one of their lives using sorcery to one degree or another, from one extreme to the next. They were astounded, each recalling those times vividly, and seeing them now with renewed perspectives they couldn't deny, now feeling thankful, grateful even for what their brother in arms had done for them at great risk to himself. Though there were still the odd resentful looks directed his way, for the most part, they accepted him. And just as Fredrick had to concede, for the sake of the captives, they agreed the mission could not succeed without Maxwell's abilities. They were at war. They would defy their king's decree, all of them duty-bound to save everyone captured by any means necessary.

And then, out of their loyalty to Maxwell, they swore to protect his secret with their lives.

Fredrick was ever the voice in defense of the king but was not surprised nor even particularly annoyed at the knights' dedication to their brother. He'd seen it before, he'd experienced it before. These men had been together since they were boys, living, fighting, and dying side by side, binding them together as brothers. It was beyond friendship, as strong and true as the armor they wore. It was the knight's way of life.

Fredrick looked upon the faces of these young men knowing that some of them would not live to be his age, let alone make it through the night. They lived and died for the sake of others. He understood that. The king was so far removed and his edicts easily broken when the lives of others were at stake. It was a conflict of principles, but it happened all the time. They would worry about explaining their actions to their sovereign later. That is if they decided to tell him at all.

Fredrick felt like a traitor, but they knew their brother, and if they accepted him then he could do no less.

The swish of an arrow from one of the Clarwick archers pulled his reflection back into focus just as Maxwell froze the enemy lookout in his death stance high above the ground, the Clarwick archer then taking up a position in the next tree. Their archers would line the path the captives would take on their escape out of the camp, their short bows used to eliminate enemies from a distance.

A flash of gold, a few whispered words, and fog rolled in easily with Fredrick and the Clarwick knights entering the camp at the easiest access point, between the latrine ditches, then making their way through the domesticated animal pens and cages toward the heavily populated areas of the encampment. Maxwell, having used the same tactic as Morgana, enabled his fellows to see as if there were no fog. It was an eerie sensation.

They had watched the camp for patterns in their behavior on three separate occasions so the increase in guards on patrol and lookouts in the trees was noticed by them all, and they all went on high alert, something more than the usual was happening, but they could not be put off. The knights and the soldier from Camelot crept through the encampment, any enemy combatant encountered proving to be an easy target with the fog on their side.

They had a good idea where the Captain of the guard would be too if that part of their routine had not changed. They needed his key to open the cages. Ector and Maxwell had to get that key by any means necessary, as well. Fredrick grabbed a Southron unfortunate enough to cross their path and stabbed him through the ribs, quick and clean. Kolby just eliminated a man with a slit to the throat. It was a strange feeling walking somewhat open in the camp, blind to the enemy though their targets so unaware and plain to see.

The captain had been no different. As he stepped outside of his tent, the stab clean through his throat felled him immediately, and he crumbled with only the barest gurgle. Ector removed the single master key from his waistband and then gave it to Maxwell. Kolby and a few other knights approached, and right in front of them, his eyes flashed gold, and Maxwell handed each man his own key. Ector and Kolby exchanged a knowing glance with raised eyebrows and a small shake of their heads. They had no time to dwell on what just happened and left with haste to complete their own objectives.

The cages were clustered together, it being easier to watch with fewer guards in the smaller encampment. There were six of them with as many as eight captives each. Only Helios' two personal prison cages were entrenched within the Scorpion tents near the base of the mountains. They were Ector and Maxwell's next target.

Fredrick and the knights with him struck hard at the Southrons guarding the cages simultaneously, each using a slice or stab technique to silence them where they stood. As one of the guards fell, he tripped over a pot, stumbling into a stack of battleaxes, knocking them down. One of the axes cut the rope that secured the gate on a wagon full of barrels and released them. They fell unmercifully with a crash. It was a domino effect that only the hand of Fate or fickle luck could have orchestrated.

As it were, they froze on reflex, enough noise now to immediately alert everyone in the vicinity. Southrons came out of their tents, looking in the direction of the disturbance, some looking right at the knights, but the fog prevented them from seeing anything. Nevertheless, they started moving toward the Camelot defenders determined to investigate so odd a sound.

The fog, had it not been for its unnatural defense, the rescue would have been over before it had barely begun. The Southrons were blinded, some stood around while others stumbled forward, and all had swords drawn. Believing they were exposed, the knights were still frozen. Bertram, one of the older knights in his late thirties, unaccustomed to using sorcery so openly in battle and the newness of it, realized how silly it was for them to remain like statues almost started laughing and proceeded to cut the throat of a Southron walking right toward him with his victim barely aware he was even there. The other knights followed in time clearing the path for the captives while Fred and the others began to release them as quickly and as silently as they could. The captives, now all pressed against the bars and waiting with marked fear and barely held patience, were ready, having received instruction from Fredrick and Kolby on their last visit to be prepared to escape.

It didn't take long for all the other cages to be opened and they were all led out, guided by knights back down the way they had come. Archers and other knights would protect them along the way. Fredrick was hesitant to think that magic in the form of the fog was being used as a force for good.

But it wasn't enough. The Southrons would chase them down with their horses before they could effectively get any distance if the alarm were raised. Fredrick and Kolby's next objective then was to release the cavalry's horses, drive them off and steal as many as they could for themselves. The war horses in Helios' squadron would do them no good, too well-trained to be spooked or used by anyone other than their owners, they would have to hamstring those mounts or kill them. It was a waste of life but it was them or the captives' lives.

It took Fredrick a moment to realize Jacinth was so close behind that he felt her elbow scrape across his back, wielding a sword with two quivering hands, though looking as if she was going nowhere any time real soon. He groaned with disapproval and urged her to follow the others to safety. He could not afford worrying over her.

"I'm going with you," she said, feeling the rush of battle for the first time in her life, the thirst already in her eyes, and crowding further into his personal space.

"We head toward danger, Jacinth. Please. Go with the others." Her captivity had stolen some of her innocence though it seemed to have strengthened her courage. She was stronger, her stubbornness notwithstanding, but still inexperienced and a liability.

"We've already lost sight of them." She smiled mischievously, knowing that Fredrick would not send her out alone. She had come to know him well enough while in Longstead, his honor to justice, his defense of the weak, his steadfast loyalty to Gwen. His, and Erwan's, and even though she may be considered a country girl of low standing, her intelligence was not.

"This isn't a game, child." Jacinth bristled visibly at the condescending description he held of her, and he knew instinctively he'd said exactly the wrong thing.

"I'm not a child, and I don't think I can ever play another game. I'll never be a victim again, Fredrick." All the mischief of before had been subsumed beneath her determination as she made her way around him. He made to disagree further, but someone barreled past them that kept him silent.

"There's no time to argue," Kolby hissed, pushing ahead of them toward the tents where the cavalry slept. Tense words were thrown back over his retreating shoulder. "We must release the horses or they will have a means to follow us."

He took three more steps and stopped when several of his knights were suddenly struck with arrows and fell with harsh cries of surprise and agony. He and Fredrick cursed at the same time, fearing the veil of the fog suddenly lifted when all the Southrons turned and faced them. Fredrick was the first to recover, shoving Jacinth behind a wagon and stabbing the nearest Southron with a quick jab to the gut, then throwing the dagger at another. Someone let out a berserker yell and then the arrows and daggers flew in earnest.

….

This was the third night in a row of restlessness and Guinevere longed for sleep. It wasn't because of the buzz of the Mayday celebration and the smell of the freshly gathered flowers drifting in through her open window. Its festive energy washed over her, but could not soothe her. She refused to go with Hunith to the Beltane celebrations though she had helped to prepare in any way she could to transform the humble village into a romantic setting for lovers and friends. She felt out of place since she had neither. She laid on a cot under the window deep in her own despair trying not to let the memories of yesteryears overwhelm her.

Maybe it was because she still resisted the chance to relax, ready for the next catastrophe to befall her and upheave her life once again. There was no reason to believe Fate would be kind to her and leave her alone. It never had before. Her feelings had never mattered to the wheels of time that ground slowly onward, crushing its cruel desires on whomever it chose. She dared to think this could be her new home if she let it. That she could find some measure of peace to soothe her troubled soul. But still, sleep was far from her reaches tonight. It was Beltane, a night for lovers unbound.

Perhaps it was this place, the memories they made here years ago, now assaulting her with fondness nearly every place she went in the small village. When there had been a side to Morgana that had made her a sister and not the enemy, when she first saw layers Arthur had managed to keep hidden unfold. Merlin, of all of them, had not changed in any fundamental way from those days. Morgana was now lost to them, Gwen was a stranger to herself, her valor emergence, and Arthur had become so much more than he had appeared to be, when he began to look at her as more than just Morgana's maid.

He'd had no business being in that village, in another kingdom, but Merlin needed help, and the prince showed cunning, resourcefulness, and courage to protect his servant's hometown from marauders. Gwen didn't believe he was capable of thinking about anyone but himself before then, but his actions added another dimension to the spoiled prince she'd never seen before. Merlin had become more than just his servant whether the man realized it or not.

And then the imaged of his humility crumbled when his thankless and snobbish behavior appeared over the meager meals he had to eat. She'd rebuked him solidly, and he seemed to appreciate it in earnest and admire her bravery to stand up to him, something few men had the guts to do. It began their deliciously slow, yet mostly painful, orbit around one another, each taking turns to sabotage the relationship one way or another over the years until they finally gave in to their own desires and wrapped themselves in a love so deep that it hurt when they were apart. It almost made her laugh at their insanity, though there was little if any, humor to be had.

Maybe it was knowing that Camelot could be under attack this very moment. The Southrons could be killing her friends, or Elyan captured, or Arthur executed. Just as she thought it, a knot coiled in her stomach so intensely that she turned on her side and drew her legs in tight into a fetal position. Gwen wrapped her arms around her knees, involuntary tears streaming down her cheeks. She had never needed her long dead mother more than at this point. She had held her emotions in for so long that now her defenses crumbled just as assuredly as her composure, and in a mass of conflict and pain, she cried out in anger and hurt.

"Arthur!"

She was supposed to be in Tintagel with Arthur today, standing beside him as his wife, and he had promised to dance with her by the sea. So much more had been wrapped in that promise, and she had yet to let it go. He had told her the waves would crash upon the shore in rhythm with the way they moved, in and out of the intricate forms of the dance, their hands touching one upon the other for so brief a time it would be maddening, and they would see the stars reflected in each other's eyes. It was a promise of what would have come after they had retired from the public eye.

Now instead, she was in Ealdor, a poor substitute for the splendor lost. The little village was still beautifully decorated even in its simplicity. She had made sure to make as many garlands as she could, her deft fingers weaving the blooms with consummate skill, and was pleased to see them hung between trees and poles and lining the tables. But it was the first time in years she was spending this holiday without her love, and the loneliness was crushing her soul.

When Hunith had returned to the house she hadn't noticed, too lost within her own misery, but Merlin's mother was at her side immediately. "Guinevere, oh, my dear." She pulled the girl into an embrace that only a mother could give and rocked her gently. She wasn't her own mother, but she was here and she was real.

"I still love him, Hunith," Gwen cried, dissolving in the comfort of the older woman's arms. They didn't know each other very well, but the last few weeks they had developed a comfortable relationship. Guinevere saw where Merlin got his gentleness and fairness. And it had been so long since she was held with so much love that she started to tremble. "I can't stop myself from loving him."

"Love is something out of our control. Once it has you, I mean truly has you, all you can do is embrace it and see where it takes you. Most of the time it's a wonderful journey."

"It hurts."

"Of course, it does. You lost a part of yourself."

"I want to be there. I should be there fighting at his side."

"I'm sure he's grateful that you're not."

Gwen wanted to believe on some level that was true, that Arthur would rather have her far removed from the conflict than entrenched in the ugliness of battle. She had become a fair swordswoman and knew she could hold her own. But with her not there, her safety was one less thing for the King to worry about. One less distraction that could get him killed with concern for her.

Well, maybe he would have cared before all this, but not now, she reminded herself, and the tears came again.

"What happened, Gwen?" Now, with Merlin's mother, a near stranger, she felt ready, safe, a burning desire to finally break her silence if only just a little of it.

"I am so ashamed of what I did. I betrayed Arthur." She twisted her face as much as her hands, wringing through the heartache that was her life. "He found me in the arms of another, a man I thought I no longer—loved. Arthur was…enraged, drew his sword, and they fought." This was the first time she'd spoken about it. Not even with Mary did she tell what happened. It had been too early, too soon then, her spirit still brittle with thoughts of her own foolishness. And then after a while, she just wanted to forget it had happened and move on with her life even though she knew how cleansing the telling would offer.

"You should have seen the shock and pain in his face, Hunith, when I stopped him from killing Lancelot. By stepping between them, I wounded Arthur deeper than any sword. How could he not think I'd chosen Lancelot to protect? That wasn't the case. I didn't want either of them hurt."

"They were friends?"

"We were all friends, Arthur's best knight. And I ruined it."

"I'm sure there's enough blame to go around. You mustn't shoulder it all."

"Maybe Arthur was right. Maybe it was more than just getting married. That deep down I truly had doubts—not about him. Not really. More about me. The role, the responsibility. That it was less about who I was marrying and more about what I was marrying into. Everyone waiting for me to fail. And then seeing Lancelot alive and well pushed me over the edge. I think I even daydreamed what it would be like to be married to him, to someone closer to my station, even though he was a knight."

"Do you believe that?"

"My feelings for him seemed real enough at the time."

"Oh, child." Hunith saw her turmoil clearly, on her face, in her voice, in her body language, a woman in utter conflict. She had lost her one true love long ago, so she was familiar with the pain of losing such love.

"When we were alone, after, in the council chamber, he could barely hold his contempt of me, and I was so distraught that I could hardly speak. He was so angry, Hunith. He only wanted an explanation and I could not give him one. I had never been so far from him than in those moments. And when he banished me, my world ended. I was the most frightened than I'd ever been. Not that I was being sent away…that I was being parted from him."

Hunith wrapped her arms around the woman as warm and tenderly as a mother would. "I'm so sorry, Gwen."

"I have never loved someone like this in my life. This was worse than dying. The hurting will never stop."

"Time heals heartbreak differently for each of us if we're strong enough to allow it."

Gwen cried, and Hunith let her, stroking her hair and comforting her with whispered words of encouragement. She could tell this was the first time the young maiden had released her tears, for how long she had held to herself, Hunith knew it must have been for some time. She had been in Gwen's place herself.

Hunith guided Gwen to lie upon the cot after young woman ceased her crying, covered her with a blanket, and helped her to dry her tears. There was a calm over her now; perhaps she would sleep tonight. "Get some rest. You'll feel better in the morning."

Hunith slipped through the door and the sounds of revelry spilled in, but Gwen was already close to slumber's embrace. "Time does not heal wounds as deep as the one I cut."

….

There was so much screaming around them, the clang of metal and the cry of death, a chilling combination too oft familiar for the citizens of Camelot. They were under siege again.

Everyone knew the king would rather die defending Camelot than abandon his city or people, and he _**would**_ die if Morgana had her way when she inevitably found him. Percival wasn't willing for that to happen, and just as the screaming seemed to intensify, he and Gwaine barricaded the doors of the inner chambers, sealing them, the injured king, and a handful of others inside. The screaming lessened but it didn't go away completely, the closed doors making the cries run past in search of more accessible hiding places. Arthur could barely stand it, nor the pain wracking his ribs. Despite it all, he still wanted the fight, and no one was brave enough to stop him.

Gaius and Merlin spoke quickly of something Percival could not hear before they blocked Arthur in front and behind. Gaius knew just how much force it would take and where to press on Arthur's injured ribs to distract the king with pain by touching those sensitive areas, popping his ribs back into place in the process. His whole body shook in sheer agony, his cry of pain filling the room. It was cut short, though, Merlin using magic that ripped out all of the backbone, the determination, the willpower that defined the man. The warlock winced, knowing that it was a terrible abuse of power. But Arthur's stubbornness was legendary and he would kill himself with nary a thought to the fact that he would leave his kingdom in a worse state if he were to die for what he thought was the good of his people.

It dazed the king losing so much an essential part of him, but the pain in his side was temporarily forgotten. Gwaine and Percival were at his side almost instantly, taking his unfocused gaze as shock and pain from the injury and the resetting. The crash against the doors made them all jump, Morgana's men on the other side battering the thick wood mercilessly. It wasn't going to hold for very much longer.

Percival wasn't sure what surprised him more, the urgency and command in Merlin's voice when he demanded they leave, or Arthur, in a drunken-like daze, snapping to his feet and unassertively agreeing to go. The giant knight glanced at Gwaine only long enough to see the wary look on the other knight's face, the sudden banging at the door reminding them that this was indeed a good thing and they had to leave with haste. They would sort out the king's condition later when they had time enough and enemies were no longer trying to kill them all.

Hauling the injured king forward, Percival dragged Arthur out through the servant's entrance, Merlin not too far behind them. His heart sank when he didn't see Gaius and couldn't help looking to Merlin to see his reaction. The servant's face was set hard, stone-like, and resigned to his guardian putting himself in such danger as he stayed with Gwaine to slow down Morgana and hopefully buy them time.

The south end tower wasn't that far away, but hauling an injured man in chain mail and tripping over his long red cloak slowed him down and threw him off balance. Arthur wasn't helping any with his less than adequate responses as if he'd downed a barrel of mead to himself and was just now being helped home. It took Percival a few extra swings to take out the opponents suddenly blocking their way. Arthur tried to help, his uncoordinated left-handed swipe, usually as adept as his dominant hand, could barely hit anything and nearly took off Percival's arm, twice. Merlin hurried forward and took the king's sword, and then took point. His form was clumsy, as was to be expected of someone untrained, but he was effective. They were descending the stairs with little resistance until they reached the basement level. The next cellar was one of the junctures for the siege tunnels, and it was crawling with Southrons. Their cellar led directly to the postern gate, a false wall separating them from the hallway of Southrons spewing out of the siege tunnels.

The passageway was dark and narrow, and no one thought to bring a torch. The king was sandwiched between Merlin and Percival, their breathing uneasy. The crunching of sand and rock under their feet, the rustling of their clothes so loud and distinct in their ears as they brushed against the rough stone walls, enough of a distraction to take away from the despair of losing Camelot, and focus on the never-ending darkness stretching toward the outer wall. They pressed forward, silent, each wrestling with his own dreadful thoughts, except maybe Arthur. It seemed forever, but knowing it wasn't, Merlin soon found himself pressed against the wooden inner door.

"We're here," he said, breathing heavily. "Keys, Sire."

"Of course." Arthur unclipped the ring of metal on his belt and easily handed them to his manservant. There were nearly a dozen keys in the lot and after all these years, Merlin still did not know what they were all for. He'd needed to steal a few of them since the beginning of his servitude from time to time, but there were plenty still Merlin hadn't bothered to figure out. When he used this exit (and he'd used it on regular occasion), he had magic to unlock the gate. He couldn't very well take the easy route now, so he looked to Arthur, his face twisted with indecisiveness and a silent plea.

Arthur smiled at him blankly for only a second, and when Merlin jingled the keys closer to his face, his own more desperate, he then pointed. "Oh. That one."

Within seconds, they hurried through the postern gate on the southwest curtain wall, smoke and ash from the lower town burning their nostrils, the screams of her citizens filling their ears. It was enough to freeze their blood and they all stopped, a moment of decision to return and defend, for it was their duty. To save the king was their duty now and it took only a few seconds more to realize that. There was nothing they could do except pray they could escape, hide until Morgana was done toying with them, plan to take back what was theirs when their odds were more favorable.

Merlin and Percival pressed forward with reticence toward the Forest of Brechffa, gaining at least half a league between them and the city. They slowed to a stop to catch their breaths and check on the king's injuries when Percival heard it immediately, the footfalls of someone running toward them. He shushed his companions, his stance readying for a fight just as Elyan ran into him, his reflexes so fast that he caught Gwen's brother by the shoulders and swung him around with a fierce jerk.

"Don't hold back on my account," Elyan joked. Percival couldn't help but smile though he didn't want to. Anyone able to escape the ravaged city was a good thing. But he had exchanged words with Elyan a few weeks after Gwen's banishment when he was unable to keep his silence about the situation any longer. Percival was a man of little words, so when he spoke so long and so passionately about what he thought, everyone in earshot listened with astonishment.

He'd accused Elyan of being the worst kind of coward, the kind that abandoned family. He'd said many biting truths, standards that he had held in his friend were abandoned and a knife wedged into their friendship to where the two of them had resigned to speaking only when duty necessitated, and then falling into familiar old habits as friends so often did before one or the other realized it, and withdrew with awkward silence. Such was not the moment, the situation bigger than them. They set aside their differences to discuss stratagem, recognizing the need for their best to be better.

Arthur turned toward the screams barely heard now with the look akin to a little boy not seeming to comprehend the enormity of all that had befallen his beloved city. Fire could be seen in the upper town now and smoke billowed from the lower. He was fleeing his home, abandoning his people, leaving his friends during a fight. Father would not have liked that. Something was wrong with him. He did not feel himself. Why was everyone screaming? Where was Gwen? Merlin's gentle voice captured Arthur's attention and urged him to come with him, the king losing those thoughts and feelings of loneliness almost instantly.

The spell was more powerful than Merlin had expected, leaving Arthur with the uncharacteristic mentality of a young child, innocent, and too easy to manipulate. The enchantment stripped not just his sense of self, but all of his royal countenance, intellect, and tenacity. Merlin was sure the king didn't understand how desperate things were, of the devastating loss of Camelot again, of his citizens fighting for their lives and dying again, nor even the seriousness of his own wound. The king was so dependent on the servant to lead and make the decisions now that it was almost amusing if the situation had not been so dire.

The king was injured and the countryside was littered with enemies, towns and garrisons likely overrun with Southrons. They needed to get Arthur to Ealdor by any means necessary where Merlin knew would find temporary safety.

And Gwen.

….

A/N: I couldn't help adding in Arthur's sneezing fit with the flowers after seeing Bradley James have a small one in one of their behind-the-scenes videos. I hope you enjoyed that scene as much as I did writing it.


	10. Shadows and Blood

Revised 2/11/2018.

….

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 10 Shadows and Blood

Sir Leon, First Knight and defender of the crown, would never forget what he saw nor the feeling of despair that overtook him when he chanced to look behind him. His beloved Camelot, the city he'd sworn to protect with his life was burning, smoke billowing angry and black from fires set by the Southrons, and he was running away. He felt such shame in that moment.

Just a short time ago, they were celebrating Beltane, pockets of revelry scattered throughout the city. Now hundreds of her citizens fled for their lives from invaders that had chased them deep into the Darkling Woods in the north. He knew there were too many battle hungry enemies spilling into the city and they couldn't stand against them. Moreover, he was unable to find his wife, Mylla, and twin daughters, Leonora and Rosalinda, before he was forced to flee with the other townspeople. It added yet another layer of worry and fear to the already churning mix of negativity within his gut.

Mylla and the girls were not supposed to be in Camelot this year, his wife's stubborn insistence on leaving the family estate to be with him during the celebrations causing yet another point of contention between them. Leon knew it had more to do with her jealousy of something so innate that he could not fathom why she felt so threatened by his job, his loyalty to the crown, as First Knight and Commander in the army, hardly recognizing that it was not his position, but more his absence from his family.

They had argued bitterly when she found she had made the trip in futility, for he had patrol and could not spend any time with them until well after the celebrations, and that it would have been best if she had stayed on the estate in Deobeth where she would have been with their families and friends. She'd started to cry then at the futility of trying to manipulate him when he was less gullible than their servants and her family. In the end, when her tears had once again failed to gain her exactly what she wanted, she had turned to her only companion of late: a cask of mulled wine, though now he recalled that she actually had not drunk it. Now his heart sank at their last parting, regretting once again that he and the mother of his adorable children found it easier to bring out the worst in each other.

His arranged marriage six ago had never produced love on his part, though he had tried in earnest. She was a borne elitist in which some of her beliefs were not in alignment with his, particularly in her treatment of the lesser classes. In his household, he'd been taught the lesson of respect, no matter a person's station in life, his friendship with Gwen and Elyan more richly fulfilling than with those of nobility. He'd often wondered how some of the knights could call themselves noble when they had no regard for the dignity of another man. With Mylla, during her displays of humiliating the help, he found it very hard to be around her, let alone open his heart to her.

After the birth of Rosalinda and Leonora, only one year into their marriage, he'd been promoted to First Knight, and then spent even less time at the manor. For the sake of his marriage and the wellbeing of his children, he'd brought them to live in the Citadel where he would be home with them at least each night, barring missions and overnight patrols.

Still, she'd tried her games with him. Leon could not understand her neediness, nor the displays of unrealistic weeping and die-away airs, refusing to be wrapped so completely round her finger as her father and older brothers were. He did come to realize, however, just how strong she could be and it would have gotten her further if she had just shown him that side of her rather than the parchment-thin veneer of vulnerability. After a while, it didn't take long to include other flaws and habits that annoyed one another in their personal repertoires of faults, and pretty soon there was nothing that they did not argue about.

He actually envied Arthur, the king desiring to marry for love, and not political gain or necessity. His choice of wife had not come as a shock to him nor his inner circle of knights, his warriors-elite who rode with him on nearly every critical mission. No matter how much Arthur tried to conceal his feelings from the world for the former serving girl, the louder it spoke of his love. Leon had been thrilled for them both and then devastated like the rest of the knights with the fallout. None of them could understand what had happened. He'd come across much late night whispered speculations and questions on the matter running rampant through the knights' quarters after a few drinks. Though he had stopped them dead in the water, citing Arthur's unremitting harsh stance on anyone who mentioned the incident, it didn't stop the same wonderings going on in his own head. He must have slowed down while in the depths of his thoughts because someone bumped into him as they passed him, causing Leon to pull his reflections back to the terrible present.

There was disorder, fear, and wails of misery and hysteria. Men, women, and children; the old and the young were covered in soot and blood, dirt and sweat. Most fled with only the clothes on their backs, but some of the more enterprising souls had the presence of mind to grab a few provisions or weapons. There were other knights there, too, all scattered throughout the forest. He knew they would look to him for leadership since Arthur was unavailable. Leon shouted orders to the knights closest to him to spread the word to round up the all the people at the tributary less than half a league away. The main garrison was too far for this many to reach without adequate protection and provisions. He needed a headcount and an inventory of assets. They needed a plan.

Thank goodness for the network of weapons' caches hidden all around the city, a move that Arthur had locked heads with the council over when it had been proposed after the last takeover from his sister. A precaution the knights had secretly approved wholeheartedly, even as they had hoped they would never have to use them. He was betting the council were rather glad of Arthur's foresightedness now and would never grumble at the expense of such resources again. Moonlight streamed eerily through the trees, casting surreal shadows as people broke through them, and Leon scanned the area carefully. As First Knight, he knew roughly where they were, desperately trying to recall the reports he'd read as to their whereabouts near two years ago. Now they just needed to find them-without running into any patrolling Southrons.

Leon had seen many battles for a man a few years shy of thirty. Camelot and her lands were prosperous, a jewel of a kingdom forever coveted by many, a constant target of usurpers and despots, threatened and at the mercy of greedy men hungry for the spoils of their great treasury and fertile fields. If it wasn't some king retaliating for gain, power, or some perceived offense, it was a sorcerer hungry for power, gain, or revenge for another perceived offense.

He'd seen no banners or colors of an enemy kingdom, but he had recognized Helios, a minor but brutal warlord from the warm lands to the south. Sellswords, the lot of them, eager to serve anyone with enough coin to appease their great demands. Their price was extreme and for good reason. They had vast numbers, vicious in nature and over half were very well versed in the sword. The others were rumored to be mere fodder, controlled by sorcery as distractions to throw at the enemy and leaders, uncaring if they died.

With such a force now walking Camelot's halls and roads he suspected Morgana was behind it, she being the only one who could offer enough to them, a newly taken kingdom to appease Helios's love of coin and his lecherous intents. He could not be entirely sure, of course, but the circumstances held all her hallmarks. They had received no word of enemy movements save the early warning from Fredrick two months ago in the south, yet somehow the Southrons had managed to crash through their gates without so much as a whisper of a threat. The fields had been burned and people slaughtered where they stood in a disturbing echo of the destruction from her first stint as queen.

Questions flooded his mind. The most disturbing being how they'd managed to get into the city undetected. How they'd gotten past the guards and watchers on the walls. They'd come from the east, the direction of the siege tunnels. How did they know they were there?

A boy, maybe ten years old, stumbled up ahead and caused the two people behind him to stop abruptly and drop the contents in their hands. They grumbled at the delay, but still managed to lift the boy to his feet with a gentleness and care for his weary state, brush him down and wipe his tears whilst others aided picking up the household odds and ends they had left in the dirt to tend the lad. He was proud of these people and their will to care even in the face of so much loss.

He himself gave the lad a pat on the back and sent him down the road as his thoughts once again flowed back the other way, to Camelot and the fires of Beltane, and to the attack. Those fires were started before the Southrons had entered the city. So who'd started them? Had some of the enemy infiltrated the city prior to the mass invasion and lit them as a distraction? Or had someone from within, someone with a grudge, or ambitious enough aligned themselves with the Southrons with dreams of avarice and power for themselves. If so, then who? Who had a reason to aid an invasion and take Arthur's throne? It was too clean, too quick. The Southrons were upon them before any of them could adequately defend themselves. That could not have happened without some sort of aid from within their own ranks.

He had no way of knowing what was happening at the Citadel, the whereabouts of his family or the king, or whether the surrounding towns still stood. There had been many fires, so much chaos, and blood, and he was sure it had spread to both the upper and middle towns before they had even escaped out of the lower town. Again, who started those fires?

To Leon, it smelled very strongly of treachery.

….

Sir Ector crept through the encampment with the stealth of an experienced and well-trained knight, relying on his own skills regardless of the protection the fog gave them; to rely on something so intangible completely was just asking for trouble. Maxwell was not always there to save his hide and he learned a long time ago that the only person he could truly depend upon was himself. He trusted his brothers in arms with his life, but he was still smart enough to know that it all came down to that split-second timing bought with the swiftness of his own judgment and his level of skill in the end.

Maxwell, on the other hand, used a combination of sword and magic to make his way toward the two remaining prison cages deep in the Scorpion squadron. He used magic to eliminate as many of the enemy they came across as he could, and after the twenty-eighth one, he decided it best for his own sanity and conscience not to keep count. Those numbers were high, the increase of guards on patrol worrisome.

The sorcerer was close, though; he could feel … _her_ , and she was moving his way so he could stopped trying to gauge where she now was or from which direction they could expect her.

Maxwell had manifested this ability at age thirteen, at first thinking he was imagining things, a trick of the light, seeing a faint glow around some people. He had been squiring for Sir Elbert, struggling to carry the knight's armor into the barracks when he first saw it, felt it. A noble woman walked past the training field, her glow weak, buried, atrophied, but it was there. The metal had slipped from his hands with a loud crash and he stood trembling, breathing heavily and just staring, ignoring the precious armor he'd taken such care with just that morning.

He hadn't heard some of the other squires laughing around him nor Ector's whispered warning that Sir Elbert was on his way before a hand slapped the back of his head, snapping him out of his shocked stupor. The annoyed knight ordered him to pick up the armor and then to clean the boots of all the commanders before he could sup that night regardless of how pale he now looked or how ill he now felt.

Over the next few days, he saw more and realized it was no fluke. A servant with this glow, an aura enveloping her, then another, and a squire two years his senior, a child, a nobleman, all varying degrees and colors in their glow. He knew in his heart what it meant, the secret that so many buried deep within and concealed from all but his prying eyes. The thickness of their auras reflected the power they held. Some were dormant, some just a spark, others radiated it. Their colors reflected their hearts, some bright and hopeful, others dark and dreadful. He saw their magic, sensed their power. Their fear now mingled with his own terror. He now knew what having magic meant.

He'd hoped he only had this one ability, that it would stop there. But the alarming truth was it really didn't matter: he had magic and he was terrified. He'd spoken to no one until he was found out, yet fortune had smiled upon him and the world as he'd known it had changed completely that day.

Ector was a few meters ahead, keeping to the trees as if the stealthy movements made any difference, but even he seemed to pick up on the fact that there were more guards than usual. Lightning cracked and a tree caught fire just beyond the cages and drew their attention. He waited behind a cart for Maxwell to catch up, the cages now in their line of sight.

"A sorcerer," Maxwell whispered. "She's close."

Five more Southrons approached the cages, a woman in the lead who then circled both of them with hard, cold scrutiny. Her aura was strong, and vibrant, and angry if he had to put an emotion to it. He found it harder to read the feelings behind those with more powerful magical auras, he'd very seldom come up against a fellow sorcerer, and usually, they weren't very strong in the art. Fewer still angry enough to be dangerous. Much of it, he would have to give the credit to Gregory's ably of diffusing many grievances that entered his court.

Even with the torch-lit darkness, Maxwell could tell her hair was fiery red. Her dress and finery reminded him of a noblewoman, unapproachable yet far from unassuming. Apparently satisfied with what she saw, the woman pivoted on a heel and headed in the direction of the other prison carts, in the direction of Kolby and Fredrick. Maxwell kept his eyes on her and prayed they would manage to keep their heads down, though he was positive the spell he heard her saying was an attempt to lift the fog.

"She's a little thing," Ector whispered even though they were out of sight and well and truly out of earshot now. "Hardly looks threatening. Pretty, though."

"A fatal flaw to assume prettiness equals innocence, my friend," Maxwell said. "That would be your first mistake. She'll kill you in an instant. We need to hurry. I believe she's trying to lift the fog."

Ector grunted. "Pretty and dangerous. A deadly combination. So, we're in trouble then." If that were the case, they would not be able to return with these last prisoners the way they'd come, under the protection of their archers lining the way. It was just too far, too much ground to cover. The best they would be able to do was to head for the closest perimeter, which was west. He tilted his head toward the prison carts. There were four Southron guards facing them, and one on each end, and four more on the other side, not insurmountable odds with surprise on their side. "You take the right. I'll take the left."

"We don't have time for that," Maxwell muttered with resignation and handed his sword to Ector, then closing his eyes, visualized the six guards that they could see. He raised both his hands and after a moment's meditation, he spoke a spell, clutching his hands into fists as he did so. The guards grasped at their throats, then immediately dropped to the ground, soundless and dead. Maxwell opened his eyes as the last remnants of gold disappeared from them and then ran toward the cages. As if practiced, choreographed, Ector tossed him his sword with a skillful flick and Maxwell caught it without missing a step. They made quick work of the four remaining guards, and then each opened a cage.

As seventeen captives filed out of the prison carts, Ector pointed past the perimeter, then told them to make their way east to the Forest of Ascetir. As he turned to locate Maxwell, an arrow whizzed past his face and struck a captive in the shoulder, who let out a strangled yell.

"Take cover," Ector yelled, as he grabbed the man and dove for cover between the prison carts. Southrons closed in as more arrows and bolts flew through the air, striking down three more captives.

Maxwell, on the other hand, just stood there, his magic slowing down time and the ambush, his eyes gold and with a madness about them as every Southron in the area advanced. On instinct, he raised his sword with one hand while his other hand tingled with his unrestrained magic.

How could they have been so careless?

….

There was buzzing, and the loud chirping of crickets. Something smelled of decay, dirt, and the faint tang of lingering smoke.

A breeze swept across his face, the hairs on his arms rising with chill bumps making him shiver slightly, the smell of something rotting even stronger. Percival's eyelids fluttered in a struggle between the sluggishness of sleep and the call to wakefulness. He moaned deep in his throat and opened his eyes, face down in thick underbrush, leaf littered and crushed wildflowers. A hand tentatively reached to the throbbing gash above his eye and he winced when he touched the raw wet mess just as something buzzed right past his ear. The noise in his head didn't go away, though. That was a distinctly different kind of buzzing. One he associated exclusively with head injuries.

The last thing he recalled clearly was shouting "Run!" and dragging Arthur between Elyan and himself when he saw Morgana and Agravaine charge through the mist on horseback after them. The king was heavy in the chainmail even with Elyan's help. It might have been amusing in other circumstances, Merlin's constant needling of the king's weight now proven slightly in their flight from the city.

But no. That wasn't entirely the last thing that had happened. There was the force that had propelled him several meters through the air, the sensation of falling heavily, and the short sharp pain that had accompanied his forcefully slamming back to earth. From the looks of his position and where he was now laid, he believed he rolled down a small embankment before being hidden by the undergrowth and shrubbery from Morgana and Agravaine, too intent on catching Arthur, distracted and with his red cape no longer in their sights, they had failed to notice him. The hum between his ears grew fainter, then altogether disappeared, taking some of the dizziness with it as he regained his equilibrium.

Percival pushed himself up to sitting as his eyes adjusted to the growing light. He didn't know how long he was unconscious, but he wasn't that far from Camelot. He considered going back, sneak back in, perhaps start a resistance. If he could rally others inside, perhaps they would be able to thwart progress in taking over the kingdom. He crawled up the small embankment and knelt, giving thanks in prayer and kissing the blessed icon of a small wooden cross he'd pulled from a pocket. Rising, he brushed the dirt and dried foliage from his clothes and looked around, immediately eying the trail and tracks gouged in the earth by the hooves of horses.

Nevertheless, he knew where the king was headed, that Arthur was injured and vulnerable. Elyan could provide protection, but it wouldn't be enough. And Merlin, he wasn't sure what help the servant would be able to provide other than servant things, but the man did manage to get out of most situations virtually unscathed, so why should this time be any different. Daybreak was hours ago, but he could follow these marks in the dark if he had to. The knight exhaled with resolve. It was his duty to find his king and protect him. Or by God, die trying. Anything less was unforgivable.

….

The fog was definitely unnatural. It lacked the moisture always required to accompany such thick clouds. It was too dry, like smoke almost. The mist, for want of a better word, absent of adequate water droplets, could almost be … caught in the palm of her hand. This was magical and once again proved to the sorcerer the ignorance of the Southrons for not knowing the difference and alerting her at once. She attempted to use her abilities to lift the fog, but to no avail. She immediately turned to her tomes for an incantation to help lift the dry and heavy mist.

Brigitta was ambitious, rebellious, and had a penchant for getting into trouble as easily as she managed to wriggle out of it. She was an acknowledged local beauty, with fiery red hair and a temper that matched. The youngest of three privileged but unloved daughters from a Caerleon lesser house, she didn't wait around to be married off by a father disappointed that his daughters were not the sons he had coveted. A prearranged marriage to a man old enough to be her fathers' father would only really benefit her parent rather than herself.

Once she realized an affinity to sorcery, she stole her dowry and her mother's scant collection of jewels, changed her name, and then fled to Helva to learn the craft properly. It didn't take long to find an apprenticeship with such monetary resources at her disposal, but she proved, much to her disappointment, to be less than average in the art of memorization of spells and incantations, and developed a limited repertoire of only four or five spells that she could now perform by rote. She was exceptional though with elemental magic, instinctual almost, in the manipulation of air, water, and earth. But, with fire, she was extraordinary. That was, if she could remember the spells.

She'd caught Morgana's eye when a posturing nobleman insisted she pay for her accidental affront upon his person and possessions and challenged her to a magical duel, not even caring she was a woman. Even though she had reluctantly apologized for bumping into him and causing him to drop the newly painted portrait of his beloved beagle now despoiled with mud, it was not enough to satisfy her perceived offense with him.

With only the merest tilt of her head and pinpoint accuracy from the tip of her finger, Brigitta proceeded to cut him in half with a stream of pure fire, destroying nothing but the nobleman. Every person on the busy street had run screaming from her and she had reveled in the power she had felt, no reluctance or regret whatsoever for the pompous idiot until she'd turned around and found the amused eyes of Morgana.

Far from finding fault with her, the powerful witch had recruited her then and there, and Brigitta had never looked back. She was elevated very quickly to a coveted position in the High Priestess' army. She didn't know if it was her gift or her ruthless dark streak that had attracted Morgana, but she had finally started the climb out of the shadows of a lifetime of mediocrity.

Brigitta, therefore, took any and all threats against Morgana's plans as a personal affront. She had expected something to happen, some attempt to free the prisoners, and having received a crow from the High Priestess warning of the knights and their intentions, she took it very seriously. She increased the patrols across the camp and the guards around the prisoner cages as a precaution. She had strengthened the wards Morgana had set, but they were obviously ineffective with this fog.

They were making their move she could tell that much. But what she hadn't counted on was finding a sorcerer in their ranks rather than assuming the mist merely being lucky providence. There was only one reason there would be such fabricated fog, and that would be to conceal their numbers and their movements. Brigitta would not have that; she could not afford to fail and lose Morgana's favor.

This was her time to show her worth. Morgana had entrusted the encampment to her, had believed she'd be able to control any situation that befell the camp. The unnaturalness of the mist though made her inadequate knowledge of elemental magic near useless to remove it. She would have to rely on a conjured counter-spell. She slammed the thick tome shut.

"Marcellus, Felix," was more than she needed to say, a pair of her personal guards pulling the tent flaps back for her, then falling in behind by rote as she stalked toward Helios' prison cages, three more guards closed the ranks, falling in behind them.

She mumbled an incantation and her eyes flashed weakly gold. She cursed when nothing happened and zapped a tree stump with a bolt of lightning that cracked the air in her frustration. It exploded in flames though immediately smothered by the density of the fog. She quickened her pace toward the cages only a few rows of tents away. She could see the first of the guards and all seemed quiet.

Within a few more moments, she had circled the cages, her eyes regarding the prisoners, the guards, the foggy surroundings with a probing scrutiny, as if she were looking for something specific, some sign of trouble. The fog had rolled in not too long ago and the prisoners were still in the cages. If the enemy were going to make their move, it was going to be soon.

Brigitta inspected the cages once more, confident that they were secured before heading in the direction of the other prison carts, her personal guards falling into step behind her. She repeated the spell she'd spoken a moment go, changing an inflection here and a pronunciation there, but the right enunciation to lift the mists still escaped her. This time, she only cursed loudly, the men stationed behind her petite form looking at each other with raised eyebrows at her unheard-of restraint. The cursing they were used to.

She hurried her pace toward the other cages, using her inner eye to guide her steps. She closed her eyes and pulled upon her limited knowledge and skill of elemental magic and incanted the spell with a surety she had not held previously. Before she opened her eyes, she smiled as if she'd just stolen a delicious tart her mother had forbidden her to eat.

The fog suddenly vanished.

She could see the other cages now, and the knights, and the man she assumed to be her primary target. He'd just shoved one of the prisoners behind a wagon and killed two of her men with two smooth strokes as one of her berserkers screamed terrifyingly. She spoke a spell, and Fredrick grasped his throat, the life-sustaining air cut off from his lungs by the invisible hand that was choking him from so far away.

Another odd sensation gripped him, and Fredrick felt his feet lift off the ground as he was pushed into the wagon by an unseen force, a little more precious air escaping his lungs. He couldn't breathe, and the edges of his vision started to spark and creep with a gray haze as he was rapidly losing consciousness, barely catching sight of his friends also being propelled backward with a blast of invisible air. Leather-clad Southrons were upon them in seconds and pulled them roughly to their feet. A red-headed woman, her hand outstretched, approached him. Someone yelled "Take cover" behind her, but it was either too far away or his hearing had also been affected by his near strangulation.

"You fool," she said, her eyes dark and void of any warmth, and a smile even darker. "Did you think your magic would be enough to stop me? How many of you are there?"

She should have noticed when the fear in Fredrick's eyes changed to shock and disbelief, his gaze flicking past her. She never saw the knives, swords, and arrows that embedded into her skull, back, and sides. Her eyes glazed in shock, her hand loosening its death grip as a trickle of crimson dripped from the side of her lips when she coughed just once. She fell into Fredrick, suddenly boneless, and they both crumpled to the ground, her dead weight pinning him to the packed dirt.

….

Time seemed to slow down. Deadly projectiles headed their way with unerring accuracy and they were all exposed, the prison wagons being the only cover to be had.

Maxwell had a terrible decision to make. Save his friend and everyone else died, or sacrifice him for the greater good. The remaining captives and knights might have a chance at survival. He raised his sword in a defensive stance while on instinct, his other hand tingled with suppressed, but powerful magic. It was with hardly a thought to let some of the gathered force spill and conjure a protective shield to surround his body, only becoming visible when repelling an arrow or bolt.

Ector dove between the prison carts, yelling for everyone to take cover. It was a call that was too late, most of the prisoners despite being Helios' prime stock were struck down with arrows or bolts, and the few remaining were surrounded by raging Southrons deep in the fury of blood lust and beyond any kind of reason.

Maxwell sent a blast of air in a sweeping arch that propelled the advancing Southrons backward, the archers in the trees yelling as they fell to their deaths unceremoniously. Ector was fighting furiously with the guards that came from behind, trying to protect the fallen captives, but the arrows from that direction halted his fight, striking him thrice in the chest. Those arrows didn't miss any of the other captives either. It was as if they had some otherworldly sight gifted them, nothing missed.

Maxwell turned toward Ector just as he fell to his knees with one after another shaft sticking out making him look like some macabre pin cushion. Seeing his brother-in-arms fall as the arrows kept striking him and everyone else they'd tried to save made his blood in his veins boil with fury. In the wink of an eye, his friendship with the fallen knight filled his every thought. Ector had squired with him from the beginning, a friendship forged from the near instance they met, an almost immediate affinity with one another. When others had first teased Ector for the strange and exotic Nubian clothes he used to wear, the clothes of his noble house, it was he who defended the frightened boy. And later, Ector was the first to find out about his magic, even before Gregory, and had kept that secret locked in his heart for over a decade. Their friendship had bonded beyond blood.

As if the whole of time closed in on him, everything stopped when his fury turned to white hot rage. He chanted a vicious spell through gritted teeth as he lowered himself to the ground, one that would have given even Morgana's heart palpitations if she'd heard it. The words sounded ever so dangerous as his voice rose in pitch and timbre, all his feeling poured into fueling the spell, his eyes glowing like liquid fire as he slammed his palm into the dirt, crushing the leaves. The ground shook slightly near him, knocking over a few tents as it gained in power and intensity and flowed outward.

Every sword and arrow, dagger and bolt, rose in the air and shot out in all directions, their targets exacting and very specific, no enemy would remain standing when he was through. It was not just every weapon in his immediate area seeking a target, oh no. It was every weapon in the encampment, and they gouged every defending Southron remaining to a painful death.

Maxwell grinned darkly ever so slightly before sobering with surreal realization of exactly what he'd done. The draining of his energy left him reeling, knocking him to his knees and doubling him into a retching fit the likes of which he'd never experienced before. His eyes stung with tears and his throat was raw, but he pulled himself together after long minutes and ran to Ector, praying he would not be too late to say goodbye. Scooping up his friend's upper body to rest on his legs, he cradled the knight's head with one of his hand.

"My friend," he said softly. "I knew I'd catch you lying down on the job one day … Ector?"

Ector was bathed in sweat. His eyes were glazed when he fluttered them open, his grin pained. "I deserve one moment's rest," he stuttered through gurgled blood, his teeth stained red. "Don't you think?" He tried to focus his gaze on Maxwell, and his breathing became shallow. "The others? Are they-are they all right?"

He debated with himself, lie and bring a modicum of comfort or be honest. No matter the outcome, he could do nothing but tell his brother the truth. "All dead." It didn't even sound like his voice.

"Then we failed, Gal." A tear finally escaped at this, where the pain had not managed to break him. His voice cracked. "I failed." He coughed and streams of blood spewed from his lips.

"No." Maxwell hastened to reassure him, the hurt of hearing a name of long ago that only he and Gregory knew made his eyes burn. His own tears fell then. "We lost some but not all, my friend. Many escaped. It is a bittersweet victory indeed."

His words were lost on the dead. Ector was gone, staring at him with lifeless eyes. Maxwell let out a slow exhale and extricated himself from his friend, gently laying him on the ground. The others that had escaped still needed protection and so his job was not yet done. He would mourn properly when everyone they had managed to rescue was far away from the carnage and safe. There would be no time for the leisure of grief until this was all over.

He stood up and looked for the first time at the result of his magical outburst, truly shocked at the destruction he had wrought. Dead Southrons were strewn everywhere, many with three or more punctures by weapons in all the critical organs of the body. Blood was everywhere. It made him feel sick once more, but he swallowed the nausea and carried on trying to get out of the immediate area.

Maxwell staggered forward, but distance didn't help. In his mind's eyes, stretching across the entirety of the camp, he saw the dead. He saw a sea of blood. His whole body shook with sadness, with regret, with repulsion. He didn't see the other man stretch an arm out of the growing daylight and put a hand on his shoulder to support him. Startled, he looked up with red-rimmed eyes into Fredrick's solemn face.

"You saved my life," Fredrick said without preamble. As hard as Maxwell found it to be, the choice to save himself with so many others lost was a burden he would carry for the rest of his life. He nodded briskly, but his tears still fell for their harsh and costly victory.

….

 **A/N: Hello, my friends. I know most were expecting to see Arthur and Gwen, but this chapter was necessary to get us to where they are. I promise there will be plenty of them in all chapters to follow. We're on the homestretch now. And more secrets will be revealed than just the bracelet.**

 **Once again, KIMMIKY has cast more of her magic and helped to smooth out all the rough edges, so thanks again, my friend across the sea. Also, many thanks to tubahayes for the long hours of discussion and plot setting. You two are the best!**


	11. Nowhere To Be Found

**A/N: Hello ARWEN fans! Finally, Arthur and Gwen come together after months of separation. I hope you find their reunion satisfactory.**

 **Many thanks to KIMMIKY and** **tubahaze** **for their excellent beta. The chapters wouldn't be the same without their input! I couldn't do this without them!**

 **Finally, IDO Merlin.**

….…

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 11 Nowhere To Be Found

As he'd expected, their tracks led north, circumventing the Citadel and autumn's harvest now flaming fields of fire from the west. The orchards had not been spared either, fresh and life sustaining food now crackling to a burnt ruin. Percival covered his nose and mouth with a torn piece of cloth, his eyes burning with tears and his nostrils stinging from the bite of smoke and ash. Into the Darkling Woods, he continued north, as he had also expected the tracks to go.

The hidden cache in the wood had barely escaped Morgana's vengeful crop burning by a hand's breadth, sparks of cinder and ash licking at the tree line but dying at the edges. After gathering as many supplies and weapons that he could carry, Percival pondered why there showed no sign of the king and Merlin having used the emergency surplus since their path brought them close enough to it. They rarely had to use these treasure troves this close to Camelot, but they were still valuable when the occasional need arose. He counted them essential for him right now. In so much, Arthur had behaved strangely and quite possibly concussed, but Merlin should have remembered, being present at the meetings when they were approved. He figured they must have been chased relentlessly and hadn't had the chance to stop.

Southron patrols remained in the woods surrounding the countryside, hindering his progress to less than a league and having to hide several times to avoid them on his first day. The patrols all but disappeared the deeper he went into the forest, distance from the city and Southron complacency both playing their part, he guessed.

He'd lost Arthur and Merlin's northerly trail on his second day, still west of the city and a lot of ground yet to cover. To his dismay, he'd chosen the wrong set of tracks at a split that led him further north to an encampment of travelers who'd apparently used the same rutted tracks that Morgana and Agravaine had made in their chase after the king. That fork was about two leagues back, its other more likely trail branching east though there had been little sign of usage. Cursing to himself, he retraced his steps about half way before deciding to make camp for the night. He needed a horse, and the farm he spotted off the trail a few hours ago might provide it, though with his luck at the moment there was no guarantee.

At daybreak next morning, Percival approached the obviously wary farmer and his family. He couldn't keep his gaze from occasionally slipping to their beautiful daughter in the telling of the invasion and of his need, and she returning his obvious attentions with a coy smile and lowered eyes. But as the crow flies, they had heard rumors of it already and were horrified with the truth, vowing to keep their ears to the ground and their noses as far out of it as humanly possible.

It was, therefore, understandable that the farmer was reluctant to give up his horse even with Percival's assurance on his honor that he would return it when his duty to the king was fulfilled. The farmer's wife though agreed without hesitation, giving her husband a gimlet eye that promised retribution later if he was unforthcoming.

With one last look at the browbeaten farmer, his upstanding wife, and a lingering one for the prettily smiling daughter, he nodded his thanks, mounted the saddleless mare with an effortless jump, then spurred the horse back into the woods down the off-beaten path toward the fork.

He could make good time now and be in Ealdor in three days.

….

Leon was thankful for the distraction of becoming the group's de-facto leader, for it kept his thoughts from wandering to Mylla and the girls too much, their fates still an unknown quantity and tearing at his heart. He could only pray that they had found safety during and after the occupation and not brought too much attention to themselves. Morgana knew his wife in passing, though she had never seen his girls, would she single them out if she recognized them? Perform some dastardly acts of retribution as an example simply because of their association with him? He would not put it past her, but he did not know, and it did no one any good for him to dwell on it now, the matter at hand more real than his fears of assumptions and the people here needed him to be strong.

Three hundred and eleven people escaped the city in this group, and there was a good chance there was more gathered at other points scattered outside the city limits. At first, he thought there was an excellent chance she would be amongst these people, most having come from the area their shared rooms were in. But as the weary day wore on and the names collected, the little hope he'd held slipped away. Thirty-four knights and fifty-five soldiers helped to maintain order and provide protection for the two hundred and twenty-two other survivors now living hand to mouth. They also provided hope.

The camp at the tributary served them well enough, though he had considered taking over a nearby town and enforcing marshal law, but with the addition of over three hundred displaced people, he surmised there would be more chaos than order. Here, he could control the environment making sure they all chipped in to making the experience more comfortable from lowest peasant to highest lord. At least if they all survived this, the nobility might be a little less haughty and respect their fellow men a little more no matter their start in life. The more experienced were sent out hunting, those with medical knowledge were set to mend the injured and the rest foraged for anything even remotely useful, though the large cache of weapons and supplies would help. At least for a time.

Basic tools, a few tents, a fair assortment of weapons, it was enough to get started. The two largest tents were erected for the sick and injured, and for food preparation by a few of the escaped kitchen staff. There weren't enough shelter and cots for everyone, and blankets were sorely lacking too, yet no one complained overmuch. Like Leon, they were all glad just to have their lives.

Opting to use a small tent for his headquarters instead of the one larger council-size tents more needed for the healers and cooks, he set up a wood stump for a desk and log for a chair. Quill and ink were available, but some of the parchment had been damaged and rendered useless. He would have to choose the recipients of the missives he intended to write very carefully with this limited supply of parchment. Not only would he have vassals to call forth, but to elicit the aid of allied kingdoms was exceedingly important but not something he was comfortable doing; a king should handle those. Messengers would need to be taken from those able to handle a sword and fleet of foot. He would not send out inexperienced boys into the hellhole Camelot's surrounding lands had now become.

He ticked off the list of allies: Olaf, Rodor, Godwyn, Bayard, Annis. Along with as many lords and knights he would consign from across the kingdom, it was indeed a promising start.

….

The spell wore off with time, longer than Merlin had thought, it having lasted nearly two days, and Arthur not happy at the state of things when he finally came to be himself again. He was in the woods, in the company of smugglers, dressed in peasant rags three sizes too small looking like an idiot and apparently considered as one as well.

On top of that, he was fleeing his kingdom and Merlin had bought them passage to Ealdor with the smuggling criminals using nearly half his gold! The only thing that saved his servant was a plain white handkerchief crumpled in his pocket. He'd started carrying Guinevere's favor again a few days after he'd angrily consigned it to one of his drawers. It was such a little thing, a reminder of pleasant times and it was precious to him, easy to keep close to his heart. It was comforting to know he had the presence of mind to realize its tender value and to bring it with him even though he couldn't remember anything he had done over the last few days. Just how had he gotten into such a state?

Merlin's explanations were most unsatisfactory, what little he'd managed to gain from him, that is, between waking in such confusion and their sudden frantic flight with Tristan and Isolde. Arthur's traitorous uncle had tracked them down and wreaked havoc upon the smuggling ringleaders' camp, destroying it, confiscating their valuable cargo, and killing their friends in brutal fashion merely for harboring them.

Once Arthur's true identity was made known, Tristan's contempt for everything the king represented was immediate and aggressive and could practically be tasted. Not one to hold back punches, he held fast to a justified grudge against royalty. And nobles were not much better in his eyes, living in comfort and diffidence at the expense of the poor and downtrodden. He'd lost what little he had to taxes, and had no trust in those in authority, gave respect to none, and wary of their intentions.

Now once again, a king was responsible for the loss of friends and property; and even as the four of them hunkered down away from the ravaged camp now crawling with Southrons, Arthur and Tristan managed to argue with one another, the smuggler's eyes holding years' worth of accusation while the indignant king defended his sovereign decisions.

Arthur and Tristan only halted their hostile exchange with the interruption of Southrons attacking from the rear. Setting aside their personal grievances, they easily stepped into an adept display of swordsmanship and prowess, fighting side by side almost as if they had practiced the maneuvers together for ages. The three of them moved in a comfortable rhythm of easy defense, almost seeming a dance to Merlin had it not been so deadly and Arthur's life hadn't been endangered once again.

Though outnumbered, it was over in a matter of seconds, with them defeating their enemies with flair and force and unmatched skills. Isolde went down in the fray, however, saved by Arthur in a nick of time and now laid prone on the ground, deep gashes on her forehead and upper arm. From the way she cradled her abdomen, Arthur thought she may have had a bruised rib or two.

Utter distress gripped Tristan upon seeing her hurt and fallen, and dropping his weapon, he hurried to her and cradled her in his arms. Arthur was moved like nothing else in a long while as he watched them, the usually hardened smuggler altering before his very eyes into a caring, stricken lover, his only concern for the woman he adored. Arthur understood. Honestly, he felt the same as with Guinevere, and imagined her lying there, or somewhere else, injured or dying. She may be dead already for all he knew, and that thought made his chest constrict in protest while his aching side screamed foul. He could not allow his inner hurts to show any more than he could his physical pain.

He _**had**_ heard from Fredrick and she _**was**_ safe in Longstead, wasn't she? His heart shriveled in his chest and suddenly he felt lost.

Losing Guinevere dawned very real now, and Arthur knew he'd had let her down. Had he been right turning on her for the first transgression she'd ever made against him? His mind had been clouded with anger, and jealousy, and pain; she had hurt his pride, had made him feel less of a man, so he'd discarded her as if she were a broken toy no longer cherished, breaking his promise that her home was hers for life after she'd shattered his world. He had thought only of himself and his burdened feelings, never considering what she might be going through. He hadn't been man enough to face this problem with her, instead relying on law or tradition to decide it for him. He'd made a rash decision. He'd been a coward, something that Tristan would never be to his beloved if he measured this man correctly. Of this, he was confident.

Isolde's pained, but amiable eyes pleaded with Tristan to consent to travel to Ealdor with Arthur and Merlin, and though he reluctantly agreed for her sake, they were now on foot and on the run. But Isolde could be better cared for there in the modest comfort of Merlin's home village.

It would take a day and a half longer before they reached Ealdor, nearly due east of the Citadel and just across the border. But they had fled north to avoid the Southrons encroaching from the opposite direction, which made for a longer trip. Most of that time was spent in uncomfortable platitudes and barely concealed contempt on Tristan's part, poor Isolde and Merlin caught in the middle of their battle for Alpha male.

As hard and rancorous as the jabs he threw, Tristan went out of his way to row with Arthur, ridiculing the king's every action, turning the simplest deed into a slur, a contemptuous thing; and in earnest Arthur tried to keep his annoyance tied down, but failed miserably a few times returning his own fiery retorts. It rankled that the man didn't even know him and still accorded him the same disdain as if he were solely responsible for all his misfortunes and that of every common person.

But as time crept by, the tone never changed and Arthur began to question his worth and judgments more and more. Maybe some of the things Tristan had said were true.

….

It had taken three days to get through the Ridge of Ascetir, but he was certain Agravaine and his troops would not dare follow them to Ealdor. It would be foolish to cross the border and incur mayhem on a neighboring rival kingdom that definitely would lead to a war. It would be costly for Camelot and her citizens to engage in another battle so soon, even with Morgana's power and forces. It was bad enough just having one Pendragon in Escetir, even if only seeking temporary shelter and medical aid incognito.

Ealdor was only a small farming village and Arthur well knew how poor it was, with only a few fields and fewer livestock, yet proud and hardy folk. It was Merlin's home, and he knew his manservant missed it, his duties in Camelot providing him no time to visit his mother. Barely in the village, had Hunith now greeting her son with a warm hug and a bright smile, and a welcome to them all.

….

Gwen looked up from the repair work just as new arrivals emerged from the tree line, too far away for her to make out their features, though they looked slightly desperate just by the way they moved. It elicited a modicum of interest whilst she repaired the links of metal in her hands.

She didn't know why she was mending the chainmail, it was just something to do, and the cleanup after Beltane was finished three days ago. She could not remain idle, yet Hunith would not have her working in the fields, so the only thing left to do was mending. There was very little of that to do, as well, so after stumbling on their surplus hut, she took it upon herself to inventory and organize its contents. The chainmail and a few other knightly articles were surprisingly among the excess.

It had been a sad but necessary affair for Hunith and the other survivors, going door to door after the Dorocha attack, searching for the dead, giving them a decent burial and then salvaging their belongings to be used for the surviving relatives or in the case of those who had no family left, for the good of the village. What they hadn't need right away was piled in a dark and musky hut, forgotten until, or if, there was a use for it.

It was bittersweet, some of it: a woman's tarnished brooch perhaps given by a sweetheart; a dagger with a jeweled hilt though the gem had long been lost, sold, or stolen; the slightly rusted chainmail of a broken soldier retired to an isolated village. These items held imprints of lives, memories of meaning, once treasures kept endearingly by their closest neighbor, family, or friend, their stories and secrets now unimportant and lost forever with the dead they'd once belonged.

Gwen squinted her eyes as the strangers came closer to the village. It wasn't unheard of for travelers to stop here on the way over the border, especially this close to evening and in such troubled times. They may stop for supplies and carry on or stop for the entire night, yet another of the empty houses converted and ready for use by such people. The coin they collected, what little it brought, was still a much-needed blessing.

It was near sundown, the last rays of sunlight still very bright, but she could make out the four figures a little better now. Three men and a woman, and that first man wore a jacket similar to Merlin's, while another man in a longcoat very much like one Arthur wore sometimes was supporting a woman who appeared to be injured. But that third man could almost pass for— Gwen's eyes bulged and her jaw dropped. The chainmail slipped from her grasp, the clink of liquid metal dropping unceremoniously to the hard floor barely registering in her subconscious.

It _**was**_ Arthur and he'd looked her way when they passed the road of the house she was in. Her hand shot to her mouth as she took in his entire appearance. He was dressed like a peasant of the worst order, ragged shirt and vest too small to cover his stomach, and breeches torn below the knees far too humbling for the man she once knew. And…sandals? She was aghast at his state. What would possess Arthur to bring himself to dress as such in public? She found herself suddenly giddy, giggling almost uncontrollably. He looked ridiculous. Gwen covered her mouth to stifle her growing laughter, but it came nonetheless.

It took only a moment for her to sober when she realized there must be good reason for them being there. No horses or knights. No banners or provisions. Arthur dressed as a peasant. One of them injured. "What has happened in Camelot?" she asked herself. "Morgana and Helios must have won and they had been forced to flee. Where's Elyan? Oh, dear God. Elyan!" Gwen talked herself into frantic worry, her hand going to her mouth, prowling the hard-packed dirt floor like a caged animal. They were in trouble. There must be something she could do.

Gwen forgot all else and ran for the door, throwing it open and rushing through it before she realized that no matter how concerned she may be about her former homeland, Arthur probably would not be pleased to see her. She skidded to a halt, suddenly feeling less confident and then ducked back inside, slamming the door shut behind her. Leaning against it, she put her face in her palm and waited for her nerves to calm.

After a moment, her eyes wandered to the chainmail, crumpled in a mass of metal on the floor. She worked her lower lip, then grunted. Now she knew why she'd felt compelled to mend it. Fate was still playing with her.

….

There were many empty houses after the Dorocha left its deadly stain on the land, and finding a place to rest for the ousted king and his friends was no problem for Hunith. Arthur, after seeing to Isolde's care and comfort in one abandoned and converted home, fell into a restless sleep on a cot in another. He'd eaten the meal provided without so much as a complaint to its blandness, though it was still hearty and eased his hunger. He lay stretched and covered with a blanket from the waist down, his peasant shirt removed and revealing the angry purple bruising from broken ribs, worsened from the exertion of the last few days.

That was nothing compared to the emotional and devastating strain of losing Camelot again to his half-sister. It agonized his very soul. He'd trusted the wrong people, led astray once again. So much had gone wrong in the last few months, and Tristan's unforgiving rancor rang all too true. He'd lost everything, and because he could not hold on to his kingdom, maybe he did not deserve it.

Arthur stirred from the shadows of slumber when he felt the feather light touch of gentle hands adjusting the bandage at his waist and opened his eyes, expecting to find Hunith. Surprise clearly on his face, he raised his head when he saw, not Merlin's mother, but another very familiar face sitting next to him.

"Guinevere," he whispered with disbelief. How could she be here? Truly, he must be in a dream.

"Hello, Arthur," she said softly, her posture demure, her eyes unsure. It had taken Gwen a few hours to summon her courage to face him, staying confined to her hut and finishing the chainmail with a fine polish. She used that excuse for her delay, and of course, checking in on the injured woman consumed some of her time, too.

Arthur blinked the last traces of sleep away. It was not a dream. Gwen was really there. Acutely aware of the throbbing ache in his side, he propped himself gingerly on his elbows. "What are you doing here?" he asked softly.

"It's as good a place as any," she said, her voice resigned. They stared at each other a moment, shadows of their loneliness plain on their faces until she lost the battle and lowered her eyes. It seemed a lifetime since she had last seen him, even longer being this close to him. "I've missed you."

"And I you," he confessed, truly pleased in the knowledge that she was indeed safe. Slowly, he eased himself up on one elbow and embraced her tenderly with his other arm, burying his face in her shoulder, and in her hair the way he used to love doing. He felt whole again, breathing in rhythm with her, infusing with her very essence through the warmth of her body. The beat of his own heart was loud in his ears, and he was sure she could hear it.

Gwen soaked in his purely masculine scent, felt the beat of his heart upon her breast. The heat that always radiated from him wrapped around her and absorbed into her very being. She sighed with contentment. She thought she'd never feel the security of his arms around her again, and for the first time in many months, she allowed herself to relax in the warmth of his embrace.

Plagued by her ever-present conscience, she suddenly believed he would push her away as the moments passed, coming to his senses and throwing daggers at her again for what she'd done. She started to tremble, and stood abruptly, breaking their embrace in one smooth motion instead of waiting for him to do it. She moved to the foot of his cot, straightening the front of her tunic and valiantly struggling to regain her composure.

It was as if life itself sucked out of him when Gwen departed so precipitately, his heart sinking the moment her warmth withdrew and pulled further away. Desperation flashed on his face, his mouth dropped watching her go. Like a humble servant waiting for the master to rise, she stood at the foot of his bed. A relieved, yet displeased expression crossed Arthur's face, but at least she wasn't leaving.

"I found some things more suitable for you." She pointed to a sack in the corner, now covered with a fine set of chainmail, a belt, gambeson, and dark brown breeches. A pair of worn, but well-polished boots stood at attention next to them.

 _How on earth had she found all that in such a small village?_ he mused, a satisfied grin on his face. He let it pass. He knew she was a resourceful woman, and he really needed to change most desperately. He dipped his chin when he looked back at her, his grin now an embarrassed smirk. "I take it you saw my wardrobe then?" Gwen's lips pressed together in a genuine smile at the memory, her eyes filling with mirth and she nodded.

Arthur couldn't help but return her smile even in the face of his knocked down pride. He had to admit that he looked ridiculous in his choice of peasant attire, and was much pleased that he would not have to continue wearing them. "Thank you," he wryly replied.

Wrapped in a calm silence, Arthur and Guinevere forgot their heartache for the moment. Theirs had been a tumultuous affair of nearly five summers, those early years when both thought the other as untouchable, forbidden fruit hanging temptingly out of reach. After that first surprising kiss which sealed their fate. They would orbit each other, keeping their distance, only to collide in brief moments of happiness that would ultimately end with one of them or someone else sabotaging their chances of being together.

Even with the turmoil of their relationship, their longing was deep and the loneliness of being apart tortuous. There were times when they felt all hope was lost. For Gwen, no one else compared to him. He was everything she had ever dreamt. For Arthur, he desired love above all else, and no other had captured his heart the way she had. She dared to say what was on her mind when it came to her love for him, and he had no idea how to express his emotions, let alone his affections for her. It had taken a threat against Guinevere's life for them to drop the walls and the pretense, submit to love, and fight for the life they desired, the future that Fate had granted them.

So it had seemed. It didn't take long for the recent past to impose on Gwen's present and her eyes started to water, though the tears were denied release.

Arthur sobered too, biting back his own emotions, the joy of seeing her again and the pain of her betrayal mixing incongruently, intruding and snuffing out that same joy. He then noticed the dark shadows under eyes that once shone bright with such life and passion and with everything else that he loved about her. He thought she also appeared slightly thinner than when she had left Camelot, but he couldn't be entirely sure. His heart ached for her as he wondered what hardships she must have encountered. It did not escape him that whatever she went through it was because he had sent her straight to it.

"I'll leave you to rest," she said finally, averting her eyes and not looking at him at all now, totally subdued. And when he said nothing, she made to leave, spinning away from him so quickly that it made her dizzy, though she did not break her stride.

"You don't have to go," he said before she reached the door, though what he would do or say if she stayed was still a mystery. Perhaps he should ask how she had fared. Or he should tell her of Camelot, or about Tristan and Isolde. He did not think he had the strength or the nerve to bring up Lancelot.

Gwen stopped, but did not turn around, afraid to see his reaction when she said, "I thought I'd never see you again." It was whispered almost imperceptibly, and the tears began to fall in earnest.

Arthur dismissed his own discomfort and rose abruptly, the thin blanket slipping to the floor to reveal the too-small peasant breeches. He put his arms around her and his breath hitched unexpectedly, her breath on his chest, her vulnerability, the smell of her hair enveloping his senses and rousing the deep emotions that only she could invoke, feelings he thought he'd buried.

Gwen's arms wrapped around him too, her hands instinctively finding those familiar scars of battles both recent and long past and absently tracing them like she always had. It was so comforting. She nuzzled against the fine hairs on his chest and whimpered tearfully. The feel of his arms around her again made her weak in mind and body, and she leaned closer into him. This was where she belonged, and the harsh reality of their long plight crashed in on her in waves of shuttering agony.

"I'm here now, Guinevere. You needn't have to cry," he whispered, pulling her into a deeper embrace, pressing them harder together, his chest soaked with her tears. His own eyes began to sting, a recurring annoyance of late showing up when lest desired or expected. Deep down, he was delighted to see her and relieved beyond measure. She was once again in his arms, safe and alive, though he could now discern that she had indeed gotten a little thinner. A tear escaped his pent-up emotions, and he was glad that she did not see it, the water seeping slowly into her soft brown hair.

He lifted her face and stared into her eyes, losing himself in the light brown pools of so much sadness, then kissed her tenderly as he was often prone to do when he held her as such. It was the sweetest taste he'd ever had, even the choicest berries in the midst of summer could not compare, and his body quivered with sheer pleasure being this close and intimate with her once again.

They came up for breath for only a second, their kissing more vigorous now, the desperation of their desires at the long absence taking over and clouding their reason. The king broke the kiss and began a slow descent from her jawline, Gwen arching her neck to expose more flesh. Her breathing increased, her knees were weak. Hands roamed, bodies pressed hard together. The heat rose steadily, furnace-like in its intensity.

He felt her tremble even more just when the image of her and Lancelot together invaded his pleasure, though he could not force himself to stop tasting her. Through the kisses he placed on her neck, he could neither stop the question that escaped his lips. "Why did you kiss him?" Arthur could have shot himself with his own crossbow in that tactless moment, but she answered anyway.

"I don't know." She found his lips, wanting to stop any other words from further escaping his mouth.

He kissed her harder, her lips plump and soft. Yet, it was an unsatisfactory answer and he wondered at his pursuit of it when he insistently asked once more. "Why did you kiss him, Gwen?" He wanted to know why he was less desirable than Lancelot. He wanted to know why she'd chosen him. He wanted to hold her tighter and yet push her away.

"I don't know," she replied, her voice lazy, her thoughts lost in the fog of pleasure of the passion in his kiss. She felt his grip tighten on her arms as he pulled them apart, her glazed, hooded eyes finding his red-rimmed and intense, and desperately searching for answers. Gwen suddenly felt as if she were in the castle council chambers on that dreadful day all over again, the interrogation once more making itself known in her memory. Her face twisted in pain, losing the ecstatic glow of blissfulness.

"That is not good enough," he said tightly through dark pink lips as swollen as hers, his breath and chest heaving for air. Flashes of them in similar positions in the council chamber those months ago came to mind as fresh tears wasted no time plunging from her eyes.

Yes, it mattered for him to know why she did it, but now was not the time to throw her back into the fire. They had been apart for so long and causing her to weep hurt him now like never before. Arthur immediately gathered her into his arms this time as if he could hold their fragile relationship together by the force of his arms around her.

"Don't cry," he whispered. "I'm sorry for that." Arthur remembered the white favor and pulled it from his waistband, wiping her tear away with the soft linen and Gwen cried even harder when she recognized it. He adored her, needed her, the agony and hurt and anger she'd caused him melting away in the moment. He was not entirely innocent in this whole affair. He had been a coward, had not called upon true courage to talk to her about it then. Had broken a promise. "Look at me, Gwen. I'm sorry for hurting you." A tear escaped again, but Arthur didn't care. "I'm sorry I sent you away."

That was not forgiveness for her transgression, and guilt for the upheaval of their lives wrought by her foolish and inexplicable actions summoned more tears. "Arthur…" she choked through her sobs. "There are no words I can offer worthy of forgiveness, but I am so sorry for what I did."

"Just…" It felt so right with her here now. "Just let me hold you." It seemed so long ago, but he had never forgotten how she felt in his arms. He'd wanted this from nearly the day she had left, even with his heart in tatters. No one else had ever engendered this feeling of tender protectiveness within him. It was why it all hurt so much.

Gwen leaned into his touch, drawing comfort from it, and closed her eyes. It was not forgiveness, but it was a start. She fiercely held him, pressing against him with all her might, as if she could crawl under his skin with her proximity, crying and apologizing incoherently into his shoulder, her voice low and meek. It seemed she had already burrowed under his skin, and he'd found it impossible to dislodge her.

He closed his eyes, soothing her with quiet whispers of affection and regard, a calming hand rubbing her back. He was torn, could not focus, her being so near after being gone so long, her brokenness exposed and hurting him all the same. Had he forgiven her? _Could_ he forgive her? Could she forgive him for sending her away and breaking his word?

Arthur was lost in those thoughts, in Guinevere's arms when someone screamed outside, shattering their bittersweet reunion like an arrow shot through a stained glass window and hurtling them back to the now. The moments passed as they gazed upon each other, each seeing the glaze of hope disappear from the other's eyes, both of them retreating behind their defensive walls, drawing upon their own realizations for rightfully being in the places they were set. Both of them afraid that this was indeed their last time together and yet nothing had been resolved. They allowed their doubts to grow and were as distant now as they had been all along.

"I'll see to the villagers' safety," Gwen said, slipping easily into her role as protector of the people, something so natural to her as breathing. It was a far easier thing to do than to stand in front of a man who rejected her.

Arthur nodded somberly, and when Gwen was gone, the light that was in his heart turning into a hard cold stone. He could forgive her in time, but he could not trust her. After all that just transpired, his pride would not let him do it.

….

The village was in chaos, so it had seemed to his uncle. A few brave souls scampered in the darkness like sacrificial distractions while the majority of them had already escaped to the Forest of Merendra to the east. Gaining a distraction for themselves, Arthur and his band of fugitives once again fled for their lives into nearby tunnels, hoping against hope for any sort of reprieve.

This time, Guinevere left with them.


	12. The Edge of Reason

**A/N: Hello my fellow ARWEN (and Merlin) friends. Apologies for the delay, but I'm hoping the length and content of this one will make up for it. There is a long awaited reunion and a few terrible truths will come to light and rock Arthur's world.**

 **I dedicate this chapter to KIMMIKY for the magic she cast on these words. Thank you, my friend, my brilliant beta.**

 **Thank you to all of you, as well. I appreciate you hanging in there and taking the time to read my story. If you like it let me know.**

 **I wish I owned Merlin, but sadly, I don't.**

….…

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 12 The Edge of Reason

Two moons ago it was a thriving, well-organized encampment of might and dread. Now all who had been a threat; male or female, young or old, was massacred by a heavy hand of magic. It was war, after all, and only the loser would label it as such. Though all was lost in the devastation, Southron families and servants survived as did bonded slaves and laymen. No one tried to stop the victors afterward; they merely looked on in a sort of numb stupor as the Clarwick knights collected their fallen and a few more horses, then left the survivors to deal with their own. None of them wished to linger in case the shock should wear off and attack become imminent from those still standing.

Fredrick and the others returned in a ragged line to their own base camp south of the ruined Rear Guard and once swiftly packed, moved even further away, nearer to the edge of the Ridge of Ascetir where they knew of yet another hidden weapon's cache. Kolby sent out a scout to Camelot with orders to assess the situation and provide covert aid if necessary but to send word back on how things were faring. A rider was also dispatched to Clarwick with messages and a request for further orders. They were blind without information on the state of the capital and Gregory needed to know of their progress as well as of the invasion. The countryside south of the Ridge was uncharacteristically normal considering the capitol was just conquered. Morgana must have yet to dispatch her heralds to proclaim her ascension to the throne.

Once the captives were fed and then organized, the bulk of the knights prepared to escort them to the garrison at Hawthorne where word would be sent to their remaining families. It would be a hard day's ride to the Ridge of Chemary for them, but with their freedom came the appreciation of choice and of the wide openness again. They welcomed the chance to live again.

Jacinth was reluctant to leave knowing that Gwen was still in captivity and was determined to help find her. Fredrick in all his fatherly wisdom persuaded her to return to Longstead, made her realize that their families will have a greater need for her there. He promised that he would not rest until he found Gwen and that he would send word when he did. Kolby, Maxwell, and seven other knights remained near the cache with him where they would wait for word from the scout and for the rider to return with fresh knights, soldiers, and orders from Lord Gregory.

The residual effects of years defending Uther's draconian laws against sorcery faded from Fredrick's consciousness with little fanfare, having now seen how magic can instead be used for the benefit of others, to change the outcome of a battle, to save innocent lives and not take them unnecessarily. Not every sorcerer plotted against the crown he had come to realize. Not every sorcerer's heart was evil. Maxwell had frightfully proven that Uther Pendragon had been wrong, and for all he knew there might be others out there just living their lives and hiding their incredible talents in the mundane.

Fredrick paused from skinning the hare he'd caught, desiring fresh meat over the dried stock found in the cold storage of the underground cache in which he'd had necessity to use several times over the years, and looked over at the young sorcerer sat hunched against a log, his mood dark, his eyes downcast. Maxwell was a knight who'd performed his duty using all his skills. Had it not been for him, they would most likely be dead and the captives' lives made more intolerable for their attempt at escape. The young man had withdrawn to solemn solitude, not at all celebratory in the victory for what it was.

When the fog had lifted and exposed their presence, many of the captives had already cleared the animal pens, the Clarwick knights providing guidance and the archers protection along the way, though some still had not made it that far. Forty-eight grateful captives were rescued, yet too many still fell, as had a few of their friends. It was a terrible win, but a win nonetheless.

It felt a hollow victory. The crushing guilt of killing so many in the rage of the moment had terrified Maxwell, leading to his gradual and complete withdrawal into shell-shocked silence, saying very little over the past few days. Normally, he used his magic to save lives, not take them. The Southron encampment had been full of life. Because of Ector and the loss of the eighteen captives, his magic exploded in a deadly assault of airborne iron and steel and killed or severely wounded nearly two hundred enemies in a blink of an eye, so precise his aim that no other person was injured in the fray. He'd never done anything like it before, had no idea of this raw power slumbering in his soul, and it petrified him that it could resurface and next time his friends or the innocent might not be so lucky.

"Maxwell." Fredrick had come to stand near the knight, wiping blood and rabbit fur from his hands on an already dirty cloth. He had tried on a few occasions to speak with the man on the merit of their victory, but Maxwell was having none of it and closed in on himself even further. The soldier had seen others with victor's remorse and the road to self-destruction they often walked. The only way to move beyond it was to accept the way things were. No good came of feeling guilty over difficult choices nor the circumstances within a battle that inevitably led to deaths.

He sat beside the broken younger knight and exhaled a sigh, remembering a time when his own commander had to talk to him in just such a manner. He hadn't wanted to listen to anyone either at the time. "Things just get out of our control sometimes and we're so ashamed of our actions that we feel nothing could ever pardon us for it. We may not see the good that often comes out of it because it's too hard for us to forgive ourselves for our part in it. Maxwell, are you listening? Look at me." Sorrowful brown eyes lifted to meet his. "I'm alive because of you. So are Kolby and the forty-eight other people we liberated. And let us not forget about your friends."

"Ector." That one name spoke of the loss of more than a friend, more so that of a brother, but the outcome was the same, and to dwell on it was to negate their sacrifice.

"I'm very sorry for your loss, but such is the life of a knight. Ector knew this. Not everyone survives battle."

"I should not have done that. There had to be another way." Hindsight was not a good standpoint from which to view the world-it had never been. It just made for a deep depression and self-recrimination. In the midst of their retreat, they hadn't had time for it. Maxwell was young and with his secrets, his choices more than likely had been tough ones, this one the hardest of all. There was one thing Frederick could do for the lad and that was to help him through this first major hurdle.

"The choices we make define us, Maxwell. Some of them are hard, some so devastating that it can crush a man's soul, where others may be the stuff of legends. What you did a few days ago was all of that. You must know that you saved many lives, including some of the people left in the Southron camp. Most of them are free now. Maxwell, we won. That's important, too. You must decide whether or not it means something to you."

"Ector's last words were that he failed." Though the words themselves seemed more as if he had not taken any fault on board, the spark of intelligence lighting his features spoke of a deeper understanding.

"We achieved our objective and so much more. If anyone's mission has failed, it is mine. I could not protect the Lady Guinevere, and if she is dead, then my honor dies with her. It would be a great loss for the king and the kingdom if she were gone from us forever. I must find out what has happened to her, and I need your help." He placed a hand on the soldier's shoulder. "Can I count on you, my friend?"

Friend. Maxwell sighed. He'd just lost his best friend, but it seemed he'd gained another and somehow the boulder-sized burden on his shoulders began to chip away. He nodded, dipping his eyes again.

"Will you be all right?" the soldier asked, his eyes warm with concern.

Maxwell struggled valiantly for his courage and smiled sadly, his soul wandering to that distant place he'd found two days ago and then reluctantly closed its door before him. He must not enter there again. "I will be. I must be." There was no other option.

….

They were still running and running hard. It seemed the Fates would not afford them even one night of peace. Once the fugitives made it through the tunnels near Ealdor and the danger of pursuit by Agravaine alleviated, they finally had a moment to make a rough camp, a moment to breathe, and Arthur, true to form once again, brooded with self-doubt and questioned his abilities as king.

Constant attacks on his character by Tristan fragmented his nerves and brought about doubts of his worthiness to rule faster than a warhorse charging into battle and just as roughshod. The smuggler gleefully stripped him of everything he'd thought special, the mettle of a warrior, the bearing of a statesman, the dignity of a king. Yet, Tristan called him ordinary, just like anyone else, and strutted off before hurling one last insult at him about not being a king anymore. Arthur once again, allowed his venom to taint his self-worth.

He'd lost his kingdom to his sister and uncle, thereby proving his father had been right, after all, and he was not ready to be king. He'd lost his woman. Even when he'd planned to give her everything, and seriously put himself out there for her, running away with her, he could not keep her. Now he'd lost his honor. He wasn't the man he'd thought he was and his pitiful situation proved it. Arthur dropped the firewood he had been collecting and wandered off to lick his wounds in relative privacy.

Gwen watched the exchange between Arthur and Tristan, saw how the man had a knack for pushing Arthur to the edge and throwing him over it or cheerfully wait for Arthur to do it himself. Last night began as a promise restored, being with Arthur again, the hope of reuniting had filled her heart. It was more than she had expected, more than she dared dreamed of late. Yet, as the screaming in the village had intensified, she saw hope dwindle in his eyes and they had become like estranged again. Now, he was hurting, and she felt for him. Gwen stopped setting up the campfire she was building with Merlin, turning a narrow-eyed glare on the oblivious Tristan, and stepped fast toward the man she loved. His back was to her, but she knew that walk. She knew the worried swagger of this man and couldn't stop herself being drawn to him.

She called out to him, but he kept walking, the jerk reaction of his head a clear sign of his discontent at hearing her voice. Still, she reached out to him, barely glancing his arm.

He felt her light touch and spun around, his face fighting neutrality though his eyes were unforgiving. "Don't." Yesterday had been a mistake; he should not have stopped her from leaving. His father would have been strong enough to do it. He'd shown too much emotion toward her and his father would have berated him for being so softhearted, his behavior nothing like that of a king. His anger over her betrayal had returned and Gwen recoiled with obvious disappointment. "What happened in Ealdor was a moment's weakness."

Gwen visibly flinched, the look in his eyes breaking her heart as painfully as those months ago when he had first confronted her, and then at being banished. Had she not suffered enough that he could not speak to her with a little compassion? He had seemed so much more forgiving when he had first set eyes on her in Ealdor last night, though a shadow of doubt seemed to have crept in later. One brief glance back at the back of Tristan's head told her more than words ever could. That this was not a reaction wholly down to her betrayal. No, she was just a scapegoat right now and it stung. She stiffened her back and girded herself for the rejection she saw coming.

Her agonized gaze did not move him. He could not care about the weariness in her eyes right then and he shoved his concern aside. She had wounded him as no man in love wanted to be, and his pain, brought forth by the hurtful words of a stranger, was again spilling all over her. "What you did to me-Everything I cherished between us, everything we had, it's gone. That will never change."

His words were so grave, so severe that it utterly crushed her and dashed all hope of reconciliation. She would never mean anything to him. She wondered now if she ever had.

"I understand," she said, bitter tears welling. "I'm sorry." The next words were for her presumption as much as for her actions. Gwen bowed her head and dipped into a low, graceful curtsey, the type she'd had drilled into her from her earliest memories. The deepest obeisance of the lowest orders to their liege, at this point in time it, was her only weapon and her only means of defense. "My lord."

She retreated, rounding him and walked away from the camp, quickly swiping at her eyes, feeling dejected, shameful, and so very alone. But now she knew her place.

It was like a hot poker thrust into Arthur's heart when she bowed before him and he snapped his mouth shut before she had seen it drop open. _Why did she have to do that? What had he done?_ He came to his senses then, too late to retract those terrible words. His cold rejection had just pushed her away yet again, maybe even further than he had before. He was now all too aware that because of Tristan's prejudice and his own doubt that he had taken his frustration out on the woman he still loved. Did he really want to be without her for the rest of his life? What was he trying to prove by denying his need for her? Why did she kiss Lancelot? If it was an exercise in loneliness and self-flagellation, not to mention impulsive cruelty, he was doing an admirable job.

Then he heard someone call her name with so much surprise and fondness, the exact opposite emotion of what he had just meted out, that he turned and watched her run toward a man dismounting a horse and hugging him with a joyful squeal. A rather large contingent of knights and soldiers was in his company and emerging from the woods.

 _Straight into the arms of another man_ , he thought in muted fury, his agony turning to anger, jealousy even, within mere seconds. _How quickly she recovered._ Then he remembered how strong she really was, hiding her sorrows from the world, and sometimes from him, not wanting to burden anyone with her problems. He bit back his ill manners and berated himself again. That was not fair of him, and it was becoming a habit, his wildly out of control emotions rocking dangerously near the ledge, balancing too precariously on the thin edge of sanity, disaster and hysteria waiting on either side should he falter and slide down those steep and slippery slopes.

The king took a mental step backward, trying vainly to distract himself from self-destruction and took in the scene with as much objectivity as he could muster. He recognized the emblems on the majority of the knights' capes as Clarwick though there seemed to be a few others from Perth, Broom, and Tallen; and the man she had granted a smile of fondness, Arthur was almost certain he was one of his soldiers sent to protect her.

They seemed as close friends now, he bemoaned, the pinprick of those insane talons of jealousy biting the soft flesh of his reason and drawing blood before he was able to pull back and hoist it into some semblance of control. Still, the man was too close for his liking, let alone propriety, and Arthur decided he'd have words with him later. But he needed to confer with the knights of his kingdom and waited for their approach while manfully ignoring the other scene playing out only paces ahead.

….

"Fredrick! What are you doing here?" Her joy at the safe return of at least one friend could not be contained. She needed all the allies she could find right now.

Kolby patted his shoulder from behind, spotting Arthur closing the distance. "I'll talk to the king and offer our aid."

Frederick nodded and Maxwell followed his commander, his eyes going instinctively to the surge of magic radiating from somewhere close. The woman, Lady Guinevere no doubt, was curiously shrouded in a protection spell, but he tracked a more powerful source to the lanky young man now standing alongside the king. The knight's eyes widened as he took in the full breadth of the servant's gift, mesmerized by the greatest and most beautiful aura he'd ever witnessed. Such power! But such gentle intent, too. Now here was a surprise, but a welcome one if he read the man correctly. He meant no harm, and Maxwell hoped to have found another friend.

Knowing that he, too, must speak with the king, Fredrick was sure he'd want an explanation as to why he had not been with Guinevere where ever they had found her, why he'd failed in his mission to protect her. His eyes sought for Arthur, and finding him in the usual company of his manservant, he couldn't gauge his mood, the mask of kingship was sat firmly in place. The soldier was certain the king would be roiling underneath that calm unruffled façade; that his mood would not be a pleasant one given the loss of his reign and the fate of his kingdom. He'd felt agonized when Gwen had been thought lost. How much worse would a king feel at the loss of _**all**_ he held dear? He returned his gaze to Gwen. At least, the king had her back now. That, in itself, had to count for something.

"I am beyond gladness to find you are well, my lady. When we left the Southron camp, the trail led here, and we followed in hopes that we'd find the king." He could not divulge that Maxwell's magic proved to be quicker and better than his own tracking skills, nor would he begrudge such a remarkable talent. "But Gwen, when you weren't with the other captives, I feared you were dead. What happened? How did you get here?"

Gwen shivered at the traumatic memories of imprisonment, seduction, and injury, yet held her head high with courage and a touch of humility. "I had an opportunity to escape, and circumstances brought us back together, Arthur and Merlin that is. So the others, you were able to rescue them?"

"Aye. With help from the brave knights of Clarwick. Most of your friends have returned to their homes. Including Jacinth."

She breathed a sigh of relief, smiling with hope. "Our friends, Fredrick. That is good news. We could use some right now." Her expression turned solemn. "I saw Erwan fall."

"He was a fine lad, my lady. You should also know that Mary…."

"Oh, no." A hand went to her mouth, and she swayed, her knees nearly giving way, but Frederick steadied her by the arms and then led her to a nearby log to sit. One of her dearest and oldest friends, dead and she wept uncontrollably. She couldn't help wondering if she could have done anything to prevent it. But no. There had been nothing anyone could do in the face of such tyranny as Helios brought to bear. All she could do now was mourn and move on, think about those still living. "And John?"

"He's all right. Having a tough time with it, though." Gwen was thankful that at least one of them had escaped even if he was damaged. "Lord Gregory sent aid to the village, but the return of some of their families should bring them closer to healing."

"So much has happened," she bemoaned, the gravity of the last month and Arthur's cruel rejection of her suddenly weighing her down. "We fight so hard for what we love, our homes, our families; for what? For someone one or something to suddenly take it away? I'm tired, Fredrick. I don't know how much more of life's cruelties I can withstand." She leaned into the consoling embrace of Fredrick though it was uncomfortable for him doing so. "I'm so alone."

"No, my lady." He was very aware that the king could be watching as she finally let go the iron control she had kept thus far and wept in his arms. "There are many who love you. I, for one, I shall remain by your side for as long as you breathe."

….

Arthur was watching the exchange between Gwen and the soldier, that first glance over Kolby's shoulders evolving into another every few moments, seeing that whatever being said between them was apparently very upsetting for Guinevere. He saw Fredrick lead her to a log to sit, Guinevere covering her face in her hands, her shoulders jerking from overwhelming sobs. His heart was breaking for her, with her. For a moment, Arthur forgot his pride and truly desired to be in Fredrick's place, holding her, consoling her in her time of need. He should be there to wipe her tears away as he had done in the past. But after the harshness and finality of his last words to her, that would never again be so. Then Kolby said something that drew his attention back with a start.

"What did you say?"

"Longstead was the first town raided by the Southrons. They killed many and captured men and women, Sire. It was in the letter I sent to you two weeks ago."

"I received no such letter from you with those details. It said the Southrons were fully entrenched in Lot's kingdom, moving further east and away from the border." It did not escape him that Kolby spoke of Longstead, the same Longstead where Guinevere had made a new home with her friends, friends he knew were as important to her as family. She had obviously escaped the devastation the Southrons would have left behind and then left the kingdom all together to end up in Merlin's hometown, he reasoned. That would explain the lines under her lovely eyes, and the weariness he had sensed earlier bearing her down. Well, those would be partly the reason why she was under such stress, certain the tumultuous situation between them was another. He was just thankful she was all right.

"I assure you, sire. That was not what I wrote, and I trust the man who delivered it to Castle Chime with my life. He would have put it in no one's hands but the bird keeper's."

Arthur pressed his lips together and hummed. It made sense now, why he had not received any warnings of invaders from the south until they were well within the city walls. With Chime the central and largest location for a pigeon post, it was feasible some communications were intercepted, read, and then forged with misinformation or misdirection. Fewer even messages for this time or year or even expected replies had been received and the pile of letters on his desk was somewhat smaller than it had been years previous. He had just thought there had been fewer actions of note, or more succinct replies, not that they were being sabotaged. How long had this been going on? Who would have the audacity to steal the letters addressed to a king?

The answer was far too obvious and something he should have foreseen. He could well imagine that all the letters he'd dispatched had been intercepted and read, reaching their destinations at least altered or despoiled if found harmful. Arthur grew beyond furious the more he thought on it. How could they have not noticed such deception?

"We have a traitor in Castle Chime." His resignation with the situation was really quite a sight. It had become something less than surprising to find he was being betrayed by yet more people.

"That must take a network of men—" Kolby started with a puzzled frown.

"Or the use of sorcery," Maxwell interjected. All eyes turned to the young knight, and Maxwell shrugged. "Consider having in your possession counterfeit copies of the seals of all the kingdoms and vassals and noble families that must use that service. There would be too many and would be nigh on impossible to maintain or keep secret. They would be found out in short order." Maxwell unintentionally landed his eyes on Merlin when he said that last part and the servant actually flinched, and the knight wondered why with a hint of curiosity. _Had the servant done or known something of what they spoke of in the past?_

Arthur also saw Merlin's reaction but dismissed it as quickly as he'd noticed when Gwen and the soldier came into his periphery, walking at a slow pace toward their campfire yet giving them a wide berth to get to it. He forced his concentration back to the conversation.

"You wouldn't know from day to day which seal or seals you'll need," Merlin added, recovering quickly from the perceived accusation, the full scope of what Maxwell was laying out coming into focus.

"Precisely. A man would be noticed carrying the heavy seals of nobility wherever he went, the sheer volume of them would bring every eye since he wouldn't be able to conceal them very well."

"And hand script. Forging takes time." Merlin was sounding more and more knowledgeable about the art with every point he raised. _Just what had the manservant been up to?_

"Takes talent. I don't even think the most skillful of counterfeiters could accomplish such a feat in the time it would take to reply adequately to their means and then to actually write the letters. He would have to be brilliant, else there would be lengthy delays that would bear investigation." Maxwell shook his head. "Time is against anyone trying to forge official documents."

"There could be accomplices," Merlin suggested. The more involved the quicker the chance of getting caught and this had been going on for some time. They paused for only a second, to dismiss collaborators with just a shared glance. It was as if they had known each other and worked together for years, interpreting the body language and train of thought so well that all it took was one glance. "And the parchment…"

"Differences that could be noticed by the recipient. Differing weights, grains, coloration; the way it was cut, or folded. Even the type of wax used for the seals."

"Yes. And some of the letters would have crests, emblems, mottos…"

"Full Achievement or Coat of Arms, fine etchings around borders. It would take a near exact duplicate. Something even the finest scribe might have trouble with when making documents within the court, and with full approval."

A wave of the hand, a small incantation and a sampling of the most common parchments used within the kingdom, and … They took one breath, each unconsciously mirroring the other's stance and said in unison, "Magic."

Arthur and Sir Kolby watched the rapid-fire exchanged between the two men as they put the pieces together like a puzzle with satisfied nods. They both blushed when they noticed the entertained looks on the king and knight's faces.

"Now that that's decided," Arthur said, slightly amused despite the gravity of the whole affair. "Let's figure out what to do about it. But before that, I'd like to know how your mission fared, Sir Kolby. The Southron encampment."

"We were able to rescue near fifty captives, my lord." He dared not say anymore, not with so delicate a matter, and not to Arthur Pendragon. "We sent them to Hawthorne so that they can reunite with their families in safety."

"Not everyone made it out alive," Maxwell added in a soft tone, shrugging dolefully this time when everyone looked at him again, his spirit suddenly deflated. "We lost a few of our own, as well." The king nodded solemnly. War was not partial to the casualties that fed it. It always amounted to loss of life on both sides no matter the eventual victor.

Arthur admired the soft-spoken soldier. He showed intelligence in his youth and compassion in his heart. The king had no doubt of his bravery and honor, for Gregory's knights were some of the finest. It was his way of stating the obvious that the knight reminded him of Merlin, to say what was in the minds of others too fearful, wary, or oblivious to voice it for themselves. It was a type of bravery rarely seen amongst those of noble birth, let alone a servant.

"Have the men make camp and find what rest they can. Both of you as well. We'll discuss Chime in a few hours. There's nothing more that can be done about the traitor right now."

His eyes drifted involuntarily to Gwen again, as they had been for the last half hour, she and the soldier now speaking with Isolde and Tristan. None of her friends had been there for her, leaving her alone to fend for herself. And strong though he knew her to be, she still needed some support. Fredrick had been that to some extent it seemed. _Well, at least, she had someone now,_ he thought with regret, and that hurt realizing that he'd just shoved her straight into another man's arms.

…

Gwen could not remain idle, so many thoughts rampaging through her mind, so many emotions tearing through her very soul. After a long and exhaustive sword practice with Isolde where she slayed a few of her inner demons, she found a little comfort in the skills her father had taught her, a deep-seated urgency to remain useful by sharpening swords. Using the limited tools found in a weapon's cache and a small portable anvil, she set up an area not far from the makeshift weapons' rack. It was a goodly distance away from the main group of Clarwick knights, away from Arthur, and it suited her mood perfectly. At this point in time, she wasn't sure she could remain civil if anyone intruded on her solitude. Here with space to think and reorder her life yet again, she began the patient art that only a good blacksmith can do.

Many of the soldiers carried wet stones, mostly the experienced ones. They found it to be a necessary tool used primarily for their knives, so there was an abundance of those. But most of their swords had dulled or blunted, and their geometry and temper could be ruined if not sharpened with care and skill. Her presence and service had become a valuable commodity.

She was glad of it, at least here she was needed, and could show the arrogant prat of a king she could well hold her own, and her pride could be equal to that of his. He was not the only one to have suffered for her mistake and she believed she had paid her dues. No, they could never return to what they had been, but she would show him she could stand on her own two feet and have thought only to help him, not wheedle her way back into his good graces. He had made it plain she would never be welcomed there again.

…

Arthur was proud of Gwen, of her strength and her courage, and watched her from afar giving instruction to a few volunteers who'd come to help. She didn't turn any away, though he could tell she wanted to, but she understood their desire to be useful to the cause. He noticed that Gwen would only let them sharpen axes, knives, or daggers after her patient coaching, leaving the delicate work of the swords for herself. He smiled inwardly at the respect they bestowed, her authority notwithstanding though he kept a neutral visage on the outside. He somehow knew she would not be encouraged by his smile.

He turned reluctantly away and went in search of Fredrick, acknowledging those he passed with a distant but regal nod or a greeting for those he knew well. Fredrick was alone near one of the few Clarwick tents when Arthur located him, balancing an arm full of firewood as he picked his way carefully around the hastily constructed camp.

The soldier saw the king approaching out of the corner of his eye and stiffened in his stance. He still could not read Arthur's expression, but bowed his head in the respect he was due as his ruler until the king spoke.

"What happened?" Arthur asked entirely too evenly, his arms folded across his chest, his brow creased in a questioning way. Frederick had been told tales of the king's legendary temper and had seen glimpses of it from afar in his many years of duty. He was now understandably wary of his king's mood when it was his own failure about to be picked apart with it.

Fredrick raised his head taking his bravery in both hands, and looked straight at the king. "I wasn't there when it happened, sire. I was in Clarwick petitioning Lord Gregory to reopen the forge in Longstead. I left her in Erwan's care, but he was killed outright when the Southrons attacked. Gwen—" He grunted. "—I beg your pardon, my lord. Lady Guinevere was taken captive."

Arthur startled, rearing his head back. He thought she had fled the town, escaped from there and run straight to Ealdor. He was visibly shaken. He'd heard the stories. He'd read reports. The thought of her captured and cruelly imprisoned broke his heart and made his stomach turn to knots. The terror inflicted on prisoners of war flashed in his mind though he refused to let the even more horrible things that happened to women slaves enter his mind lest they would sicken him. How reckless he'd been to banish her and count her safe away from him. His eyes instinctively searched for Gwen out of irrational fear, for reassurance that she was still there, safe by the weapons' rack. But he could not see her as she was obscured by soldier's milling around. He swallowed the lump in his throat, his mouth working to contain the word he so wanted to say to her.

 _Guinevere._ "When we spoke, she—she never said anything about that." _My Guinevere._ Just how much more did he not know?

"As soon as word reached Clarwick I returned to Longstead with as many men as Lord Gregory saw fit to send. We searched for her, but she was gone near a full week by the time we started our surveillance of the Southron encampment. She said she'd escaped and found refuge in Ealdor."

 _How long had she been there? Imprisoned? Alone? What had they done to her?_ Arthur never imagined any of these horrors would fall upon her, and again truly regretted having expelled her from the security of Camelot, her home. He reluctantly returned his attention to Fredrick. "Longstead? John and Mary, are they-?"

The soldier shook his head. "Mary was killed, sire."

Arthur sighed heavily and closed his eyes in a brief salutation to the brave soul he knew Mary had been and in acknowledgment of Gwen's loss. He shook his head in denial and pressed his lips together in a tight grimace. Mary was one of the gentlest people he'd ever met and one of Guinevere's oldest and dearest friends. "I suppose Guinevere knows then. You—were comforting her a while ago." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, my lord. Although I fear nothing can really comfort her right now. She thinks she's entirely alone." There was slight accusation there disguised behind the solemnity that irked the king.

She wasn't the only one who felt like she was alone, Arthur thought fleetingly. But Fredrick was supposed to protect from a distance, not get close enough to her to know these things. _Just how had he gotten so close?_ Arthur could not forget their embrace no matter how innocent it appeared to be.

"You were supposed to protect her, Fredrick," he said, an edge now in his voice. "Not worm your way into her affections. You knew she was vulnerable. I fear you took advantage of her." _Where did that come from? Why did he say that?_ But it was too late for Arthur to take it back.

"No, sire." Fredrick's voice remained calm, level though the wood he carried was getting heavier. He had not lived this long without knowing how to choose which battles were worth the trouble and fighting over a woman was something bloodier than actual warfare. "Gwen is one of the heartiest women I know, equal to or stronger than a lot of men in mind, body, and spirit. Since the day you put her in my charge, I have come to care for her. She is like a daughter to me." He dared to take a step closer, bringing his height above that of the king. Foolhardy, but it needed airing lest it festers under the surface and create a rot that could not be dug out. "I dare to think what happened to her, but know this: it was entirely your fault that it happened at all." This one time Fredrick chose to fight over a woman, for Gwen was worth going to battle with a foe greater than oneself.

All the pent up frustration Arthur had held was released in the gloved fist that connected with an audible snap to Fredrick's jaw. It was expected. He had, after all, goaded the king into such an outcome, but it was faster than he'd been prepared, and he fell backward into caked red mud, the wood flying and clattering to the ground around him. Those standing close by turned toward the clamor, but immediately went back to their business with hastily downcast eyes when they saw that it was the king, and he was looking to be in a towering rage. Everyone knew to stay out of the way, and out of the personal business of the king. And not just for propriety's sake. His temper was legendarily quick to rise, and one did not want to find oneself as his next target.

Arthur's jaw was working furiously, his eyes snapping angry red sparks, glaring in equal measure at the prone soldier who slowly rose to his feet. "I know that!" Arthur boiled over, his chest heaving with indignation. "I do not need you to remind me of it."

"Forgive me, my lord," Fredrick said, bowing his head in submission. "I should not have criticized the king." Inwardly he smiled in pure contentment. At least now Arthur had an outlet more suitable to receive a king's ire and more able to take the punishment than one young woman who had gone through far too much in too little time. For the woman who had very quickly become the daughter he'd never had, he could do this all day.

"If you ever say anything like that again, I will banish you from the kingdom." The king wanted to command the man to stay away from Gwen, that it was inappropriate, that she was his no matter how estranged they were, but Arthur's years of restraint from airing personal matters kicked in, and so instead, he spun on his heels and stalked into the forest. He must have some time alone, some time to think, some time to lick his own wounds. He was sulking yet again, and after that disgraceful display of possessiveness, he only confirmed the flaws that made him feel less than a man, less than a king.

…

Arthur was thankful he hadn't drawn his sword on Fredrick, the primal need to fight with bare hands overtaking his senses instead. Love was a dangerous madness when the heart was strangled with jealousy. Still, it was no excuse to lash out against his men, especially when it was the truth. He wanted to cast the blame on Fredrick for his failure to protect her, but he knew that lay firmly on his shoulders, that a promise to her made long ago was broken by him. If he had not sent her away, none of that would have happened. What else had his love endured? Would she ever trust him enough to share that with him?

Merlin found a disconsolate king sitting beneath a wide oak, legs outstretched with one knee bent and fiddling with a twig. He'd caught on to the king's habit of handling twigs, sticks, or a horse's reins on casual rides a while back, discovering it as a needed distraction for Arthur. In long silent moments, they seemed to help the king think, as if his worries would channel through the objects and help him to bring things back into perspective. He sat beside Arthur, silent and respectful for a time, the quiet almost comfortable if there hadn't been the matters of a broken kingship and a tattered bond of love hovering in the background.

"Arthur," he asked, his knees drawn up, arms resting on them and hands clasped together. "What's the matter?" It was such an obvious thing to ask, knowing that Camelot meant as much to Arthur as it did him, fearful for those left behind, friends and families suffering under Morgana's rule, and sorrowful for those who did not survive.

Moreover, he had loved and lost himself and understood Arthur's tormented feelings for Gwen very well, though Freya was long dead and he had no chance to reunite with her, unlike his king. It was silly to ask, but Merlin knew that more was at stake, that Arthur must recover from his losses somehow, and the obvious was sometimes the only way to gain anything from him when he was sunk so deep.

Betrayal. It all came back to that one recurring theme that made up his life. First Morgana, then his father, and now Agravaine. In a way, even his mother crossed from the dead to lie to him if what Merlin had said was true. Or perhaps it had merely been an elaborate illusion conjured by Morgause. Either way, he just did not understand why his own family would want to hurt him, to kill him even, or withhold dark family secrets that created chasms between them wider and deeper than his own castle when he, as far as he believed, had done nothing to justify their actions.

His only deeply held secret from them was his love for Guinevere, but that was more for her protection and a matter of the heart. When he had shared his feelings about Gwen with Morgana, his lover was unjustly sentenced to death by his father the very next day. He was a fool. Could Morgana have been plotting even back then?

He had loved and trusted them all, and one by one, they took their turns undermining his rule and slicing out his life, his heart, his very soul. If he could not keep his own house in order, how could he expect the people to trust him to reign competently over a kingdom? It was his own fault for being so blind to their true natures. Perhaps Tristan was right. Perhaps there was nothing special about him that made him worthy. He felt neither kingly nor stately.

Despite Merlin's assurances that the citizens of Camelot trusted and believed in him, Arthur found no real comfort in his words and truly believed that they would be better off without his flawed guidance. He tossed the twig aside and stood abruptly, leaving Merlin as worried, defeated, and as alone as he now was. It seemed this was at least one skill he excelled in.

The downtrodden king was too ashamed to say anything to Gwen when he returned, no matter that he ached with the want to do so. It was no longer his right. She was tucked in her bedroll, awake and staring heavenward at a murky and star-filled sky. He wasn't as quiet as he'd wanted, she hearing his approach but locking her eyes on deep purple and gray cosmic clouds scudding lazily in the gloom to avoid his gaze. He didn't blame her. He had made so many bad decisions these last few months, these last few days that he didn't think she'd ever speak to him again. He must seem a terrible thing to her now, a creature that devoured all hope. He would just add her to his list of failed relationships.

He moved his bedroll not too far from Gwen, drove his sword into the dirt, and sat for a moment before settling down, flexing his neck and rolling his shoulders in a deliberate stretch. The muscles in his body were taut, near painful with the bowstring tension of worry and self-loathing, and his bruised ribs were screaming for relief. He ached all over. What he would not do for the firm touch of Gwen's hands right now, her kneading his body with both pain and pleasure, the care she'd take to soothe his stiffness. He missed those times immensely.

Restlessness plagued him and sleep would not come easily. His mind was rampant with too many disturbing thoughts to count and his body tingled with unused energy, still too fraught to rest. He exhaled a cleansing breath or two, rolling onto his left side, finding it easier and quicker at times for slumber to take him in this position. It took everything in him to not turn onto his other side to bring Guinevere into his vision. He did not have the heart or courage to look at her, ashamed and feeling that he did not deserve such pleasure.

In his time alone in the forest, he came to one undeniable truth out of all the mess he'd made: he proved that he was still in love with Gwen. Even if he did not have his kingdom, even if he never took it back, he wanted her at his side and had to figure out how to repair the damage he'd caused to her life. He prayed she would forgive him. He prayed she still love him.

"My Guinevere," he whispered under his breath with the merest hint of hope. "My beautiful, brave Gwen…." Arthur fell asleep before he could mumble another word. With this heartfelt realization about the woman he adored, it was one less burden to bear.

….

It was a longshot, but Merlin had trusted this mission to Kilgharrah and he would see it done. To deliver a message to the subconscious minds of all the knights and people who had fled into the Forest of Ascetir was not an easy task, far from it. He had never tried such a thing on non-magical folk and he wasn't even sure it would work on them. It may even not be believed, seeming only a dream, but he alone could plant the vision within so many sleeping minds from such a great distance.

The message had to be succinct, not at all cryptic like the warnings or counsel he used to give Merlin. No, that would not do, and he was sure his Dragonlord would not want this information put into the wrong minds, so he had to be precise. He was a dragon with over a thousand years of experience, after all. He could do this with relative ease. But he had to be careful, too. He could only risk a few passes. Even under the shroud of invisibility, the sound of his flight and the force of the wind that his wings produced would be undeniably unmistakable and jeopardize his mission if he were detected.

It was an ugly deed by dragon standards, the minds of puny mortals mired with fear and indecision, hatred and distrust and a slough of other emotions that practically assaulted Kilgharrah in flight. They repulsed him, enraged him, pushing to the surface years of animosity held toward them. _How easy it would be to incinerate them as they slept_ , he vengefully thought, but his word to Merlin that he would never harm humans again must be obeyed and calmed his fury almost magically. He shook his mighty head, his mind's eye pushing past the fog of human bog that spurred his desire for revenge and transmitted the message with the greatest delicacy and finesse.

"King Arthur lives. Follow the path to the glen just beyond the waterfall. There, you will find him." They were mere words to him, but images and feelings to those who received it. Tomorrow, his Dragonlord would find out one way or the other of his success or failure, and so with his deed done, the dragon swooped higher into the night sky, becoming visible once more, a silhouette amongst the stars, a figment of one's imagination if glimpsed.

….

Percival woke with a start, sitting up so quickly that he hit his head on a low-hanging branch. He must have shifted position in his sleep because he was adamant that branch was not there when he bedded down last night. But more disturbing than the bump and the fresh blood that oozed through the once-healed gash was the dream he just had.

It was about Arthur, hale and hearty, a flash of water and an open glen that provided natural platforms and flat ledges, perfect as areas for viewing any spectacles performed on the forest floor. He saw a rock, a huge slab of grayish granite glinting in the sun, and a sword, graceful gold chased lines thrust within it. _Why would anyone do that to such a beautiful thing,_ he wondered, wiping the blood away from the newly reopened gash with the back of his hand, then wiping it clean on his breeches.

He did not think it was a dream the longer he pondered it, and a dire urgency to locate this place burned within him. It scared him and thrilled him in equal measure and he just knew he had to find it.

He'd missed the king in Ealdor by less than half a day and was hot on a new set of tracks, but now he knew exactly where he was.

….

Leon opened his eyes, slowly drawing in a deep stuttering breath and then releasing it. Images flashed through his mind as clear as crystal. Arthur. Waterfall. Glen. Stone and sword. He smiled hopefully. He wanted to thank whoever sent him this vision. He did not care from whence it came, nor that it spoke strongly of magical origins. He knew it would lead him to his lost king, and he dared not think about the consequences should this prove to be a trap. It felt urgent in a way he could not pinpoint nor explain, and at that moment, it was the only lead they had.

He threw his long legs over the cot, his chain mail clinking loud from his hurry in the darkness, and went to the flap of his tent. He threw it aside, his eyes searching for the young lad stuck to his side these last few days like the hardest glue. The boy was fast asleep under a blanket Leon had given him when he'd finally given in to the silent demand for a place to belong. He'd tried placing the boy with a family, but he kept showing up at his tent with no intention of going anywhere else. Leon had not the heart to turn him away again, his stubbornness winning him a grudging respect from the curly haired knight. Appointing him as his squire, his peasantry status was no longer a barrier for the captain especially in this time of need. Noble born or not, the boy was determined and a hard worker, and that was enough for the First Knight.

"Herschel. Wake up."

The dark-skinned boy of about ten summers turned his head in the direction he'd heard his name called. Eyes battling sleep tried to focus on the knight. His sleep-tousled hair, dark and wooly, was a frightful mess, a few twigs and leaves twisted in his tight curls. Leon worked very hard to keep the mirth from his expression, working his lips in a tight line. Herschel looked for all the world like some woodland sprite with all his inadvertent foliage. "Yes, Sir Leon."

"Alert Queen Annis and the other kings and lords. We have a short journey to make. I know where to find King Arthur. Post-haste, boy." He couldn't quite keep the amusement out of his voice and he'd kept it purposefully soft though still firm and authoritative. His protective instinct toward the boy had come in full force.

Leon released the flap and reached for his red cape. His hopeful smile spread across his lips as he clasped the symbol of Camelot's finest around his neck.

His king was close.

….

 **A/N: This is one of my favorites! So what did you think? Leave some feedback and let me know. And thanks again!**


	13. The Way of the King

**A/N: Well, this is where the story diverges from canon a little but expands on what we all know to happen in the last episode of Series 4. I don't feel Excalibur's part was big enough and think it's important to explore its connection with Arthur and I hope you like the end result.**

 **To all my guests that I cannot respond, thank you very much for your reviews. They are much appreciated. For all my regular followers and faves, thank you for taking the time to leave your feedback. It means more than you know.**

 **No words are good enough for KIMMIKY, but warm-hearted thanks to my co-author across the pond are well in order for breathing life into this chapter.**

 **Finally, IDO Merlin.**

 **Oh, stuff happened. I really, really, really apologize for the long delay.**

….…

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 13 The Way of the King

Merlin woke the deposed king at first light, dragged him deep into the forest, belittled his knowledge on history, and made him listen to a very well-known fact about Camelot's first kings. He concluded with a less known and fantastical tale about a long-lost weapon, a mythical sword belonging to Camelot's very first sovereign meant only for the rightful heir to its throne. A sword lost over time that now supposedly belonged to him, only him, and held the divine power of all the previous kings of Camelot.

Arthur was dubious of that particular part and mocked Merlin for believing in childish bedtime stories. Honestly, the man wasn't even born in the kingdom being a citizen of the rival kingdom, Escetir, so what could he possibly know about the history of some obscure weapon meant as undeniable proof of his rightful place as king. He had to give the man points for originality at least, and for the entertainment value, though how this was supposed to help he had no idea.

"I have never heard such nonsense in my life," Arthur scoffed, his eyes full of patient disbelief.

"What's that then?" Merlin asked, his gaze on something down a path and up ahead.

Arthur followed Merlin's line of sight and his jaw dropped with disbelief. An actual sword rooted deeply in a huge and very solid looking granite boulder set in the middle of a forest glen glistened in the rays of the early morning sun.

A beautiful sword. A magnificent sword, the sun-warmed length embellished with gold and silver. It mysteriously seemed to summon him the moment he laid eyes on it, as if it were some real thing made of flesh and blood, not iron and fire. As if it had a voice of its own and it called his name with the eager anticipation of a dear friend waiting for a long-needed reunion. It was the oddest of connections he'd ever had to any weapon. Not like his attachment to his dagger, White-Hilt, or spear, Striker.

Arthur blinked as someone blocked his vision of a paragon and broke the strange link, a small gasp escaping his lips upon realizing that it was surrounded by others all vying for a chance to release it from the stone's eminently firm grip and claim it for themselves.

The throne of Camelot potentially sitting in the hands of nobles and knights, if this story was true. Could one of them be worthy? _Not likely_ , he breathed with embarrassing relief. They were all from the kingdoms of his neighbors, and then searching the crowd of hundreds, maybe thousands, he saw the rulers of those friendly alliances. He even realized that his own knights were there. Leon, Percival, and citizens who'd apparently escaped from Camelot were here to witness this great, though terribly unlikely, feat.

How on Earth had they arranged all this? It was a monumental undertaking to have gathered so many in so short a space of time. Was this spectacle meant to prove once and for all that he was truly a failure? Arthur whirled back to his manservant in sudden anger at his presumption he would ever go along with such humiliation. The sword was stuck fast in solid rock and no one was going to remove it. Not even him. He felt like a fool on display in a court of royals there to judge.

All set to blister Merlin's ears, his mind stuttered at his manservant's expression of utter faith and seriousness. "That stone's going to give for no one but you, Arthur," Merlin assured him. "You just have to believe. Have faith."

When Merlin drove the blade into the stone those many years ago, he imbued it to the life source of a pure Pendragon. There were many articles of Arthur's clothing soaked with his blood from injuries sustained and he had easy access since he did his laundry. This was the only way to be sure that only Arthur removed the sword. He could not afford another incident like the one with the Black Knight. Even his brief wielding of the sword had affected it, and he could afford no more outside influences to shape it. Casting a spell to protect the rock from the elements, counter-sorcery, and damage from the likes of mortals, Merlin knew it would withstand the passage of time better than anything else around it, including the rock beneath his feet.

Arthur was about to say with slightly less irritation than before that Merlin believed in the impossible when his eyes moved past the servant and he saw that Gwen and rest of their camp had followed them to this unexpected sight. Tristan was slightly amused and standing with an air of derogatory contempt as usual. His eyes would be laughing at him silently. From this distance, he couldn't see them clearly, though, but Arthur knew what was on his mind.

He looked to Guinevere coming a little closer but stopped at a respectable distance and wondered if she knew this version of the story. If she even believed in it. In him. Her stare was neutral, bordering more on indifference to his dismay. He missed her sweet smile, the one she gave him when he'd just done something right, the one that said it would be all right, and that despite everything that may have happened, he had done her and the kingdom proud. She always had faith in him even when he could not find it within himself. Now was one of those times and Guinevere shared none of her faith in a smile for him. He could not smile either, but his eyes managed to say he was sorry. The king slid a harder glare back to Merlin.

"You'd better be right about this," he warned. He couldn't do any less than at least try. His whole reputation was at stake, his whole kingdom. Arthur thrust his sword hard into the dirt, and with a hesitant step, made his way toward the stone, a path opening for the king as a charged hush descended upon the multitude.

He could feel the pull of the sword the closer he came to it, as if he were being reeled in on the end of a fishing line, so unlike White-Hilt or Striker whose presence felt comforting but in no way alive. Those were treasured weapons that he hated being without and felt under prepared when he was. They held little meaning now compared to what was before him. This one felt different, as if it were almost breathing.

So tentative were his steps that he quickly scanned the crowd. His heart nearly shriveled with dread and doubt as he clearly pinpointed the sovereign faces of Annis of Gwynedd, Bayard of Mercia, Rodor of Nemeth, Olaf of Dyfed, and Godwin of Gawant in the brevity of a few glances. Stoic. Indifferent. Concerned. Amused. Supportive. Good Lord! They were all here. He was honored for their loyalty, yet terrified all the same. His failure could potentially lose their allegiance and become perfect fodder to fuel Tristan's already smoldering disdain for him. Arthur wasn't sure he believed in the destiny Merlin kept insisting as truth, but if he did not want to look like a veritable fool in front of all of these monarchs, he'd better start believing.

Standing before it, he eyed it as prey, and with the patience of a predator, he set his footing. From cross-guard to pommel, he wrapped gloved hands around the grip, flexing his fingers before closing them in a firm hold. Straining with all his might, with all the effort of a man determined not to become a laughing stock for the rest of his life he heaved, but the stone would not yield its precious burden.

Voices in the crowd began to rise in a cacophony of mockery, pity, and disappointment and he quickly released his grip as if he were scalded. He heard the scorn of those eager for him to fail on the periphery of his hearing and cringed inwardly. Then came the cries of some that quickly and earnestly resounded in his favor, heatedly squelching the enthusiasm of the naysayers, those vying for him to succeed reaching his ears. Of those who believed in him. Merlin's voice he heard the clearest.

"You're destined to be Albion's greatest king. Nothing can stand in your way. Not even this stone."

Arthur took a deep breath, never taking his eyes off the sword, never minding its prison of granite. Its pull on him had returned with every word uttered from his servant's lips and the din of the crowd slowly faded into smoke wafting away on the merest breeze, his head becoming clear as he focused on his objective, the penultimate goal. The king reached for the blade with his right hand and closed his eyes as he closed his grip.

Like an old friend absent for so long and now returning home, a gentle flow of energy flowed from sword to hand and spread throughout his body, all of its power and the knowledge of ages flooding his thoughts, embracing him. There were glimpses of a dragon, wise and ancient, and a sage old man with flowing white hair and eyes of mirth that seemed familiar.

Romans marched, Immortals conquered, and Saxons invaded the land. Children played, Guinevere laughed, and Merlin wore a robe. There was an age of peace throughout all the kingdoms and stuff of nightmares and blood-soaked fields. He even glimpsed himself on missions of the past and adventures of the future. Things that had been, things that were, and things that have yet to be. There was so much clarity and yet even more perplexity. The visions touched his very core, granted him an awareness that lifted the fog of things long forgotten and ignored. Things forsaken and things to come.

He was not afraid. Instead, these truths strengthened him, drawing a rod of steel through his core, enough to withstand anything.

His grip was now a perfect match, his heart completely sure, he truly believed it belonged to him, and he to it. Surging with the enlightenment of the ages, all his worry faded, and with less force and more faith, the blade slipped effortlessly from the stone with the slightest pull as if it were sheathed only in its scabbard. It felt as if the sword had purposely waited for the right moment, only to respond to his gentlest of touch when he was entirely ready for its guidance.

By the natural arc of his arm as he extracted the weapon, the sword's point reached for the heavens in salutation to a higher power, the sun's brilliance on him as if confirming his divine appointment in majestic fashion. Arthur could not hide the sheer wonderment on his face, scarcely believing, yet truly, he did. Whether divine, magical, or simple human fortitude, he alone freed the sword, and it truly belonged to him.

The king lowered the weapon and presented it to the people, his face resolute, his countenance exuding a confidence that all could see, a transformation all had been witnessed.

He had never felt so in control. So focused. So invincible. It was a heady euphoria as a gift of ancients changed his view of the world and his place in it in those few important moments. Instead of weakening the king, the truths released him from the prison of falsehoods he'd willingly been imprisoned by his whole life thus far.

The crowd erupted with a spontaneous bout of "Long Live the King," his kinsmen roaring louder than any over and over. Not so expectantly, the sword practically vibrated in his hand.

Until he could sort out the meaning of such visions, these new revelations, and the lure of the sword, there was one thing he knew for sure. He had a counterstrike to plan. His castle, his people were calling him home.

…

Morgana was utterly tired of bad news, but it kept coming.

The people resisted her sovereignty in spite of her burning their crops and thus allowing them no other avenue of succor; her mercenaries could not find Arthur even with the enormous bounty on his head, and Gwaine kept winning his battles no matter how brutal and unfair the challenges she saw fit to throw at him.

Gwaine. Self-less, compassionate knight-errant, forced to sing for their supper if any of the prisoners wanted to eat. He was good. Better than good if she were honest, and resourceful, vanquishing three, four, even six offenders at a time. Yet, even with his victories, she could not let him win, and rewarded him with old and moldy bread just barely enough for any of them. She must maintain control lest she be thought weak. They were lucky if the guards even remembered to bring water, though warm and murky it usually was.

Gwaine. So damned handsome, Morgana mused; and she so damned attracted to the man, having fancied running her fingers through hair as dark and more luxurious than her own, his rock hard and savory body pressed against hers in the fancies she wove late at night after yet another show of swordsmanship and mettle. He made her feel vulnerable, and the thought of being weak for him repulsed her so greatly she gave an impulsive order to have him executed at noon tomorrow. To show just how much it really displeased her to be attracted to him, to gods forbid, desire him so, she ordered all the knights killed alongside, and that little thought cheered her up for some little while.

But this recent news from Helios plunged her mood into depths so much deeper than she had ever felt, signs whispered to her in the shadows of sleep, claws of failure that stripped away her willpower. She could feel the stirrings of worry in the pit of her stomach and thought it wise not to share such doubtful feelings with the warlord. Her strides down the corridor were long and falsely confident even as he spoke of nothing but gloom, daylight spilling through large glass windows broken only by their passage through them.

"When they arrived there," Helios said, "the ground itself was still on fire. They'd all been slaughtered, Morgana. Every last one of them." The charred remains of the hundred led by Lord Agravaine to find Arthur had been a ghastly sight to the search party sent to find them. All their troops reduced to nothing more than cooked meat, now lain rotting in a field.

She stopped. "And Agravaine?" This she asked with anticipation and a tinge of frustration. She knew the answer by the set of his shoulders and the look on his face.

"Dead." The Warlord brokered no pretense of his own uncertainty as he shifted on his feet.

"There's only one person who could have done this." This she said with fear and absolute certainty. "Only one man who could command a dragon."

"There's more," Helios added, his voice edgier than ever. "My entire rear guard was brutally killed. By magic. Some of the survivors are already making their way here. The rest have fled."

The High Priestess' blue eyes glazed with terror. Her numbers were being so quickly reduced and on a very large scale. Deaths sanctioned by her Doom. She turned on her heels and continued her walk, hurried and with a purpose, leaving Helios alone with his own worry and demons to fight.

"Only one man's magic is equal to mine," she said to herself, deep down not believing that at all, her fear all-encompassing in the realization he might be so much stronger. "This is the work of Emrys."

This she said with dread, for surely it was a portent. That old sorcerer would come for her soon.

.…..

Merlin called it Excalibur, Steel Cutter. A great name worthy of so powerful a weapon.

Affording Arthur some time alone after his incredible deed, Queen Annis reverently offered a large and garishly decorated tent apparently befitting a High King, if said High King were blind and dumb enough to believe it easier to keep heated. He preferred something smaller, functional rather than ostentatious, and though he used it for a time of reflection, he repurposed it for his War Council.

The king sat in a large wooden chair ornately carved with a lion's head across the top of the back and claws as its arms. So well carved and so lifelike, it appeared as if Arthur had tamed the beast and it was now his protector. This piece of furniture of all he liked the most and decided to have one fashioned like it when he returned home, only he would have a bear's head carved instead.

The king rested his head on the back of the chair. What happened to him? What did those visions mean? That is if they indeed were visions rather than the product of little sleep and an overactive imagination. But no. Since the drawing of the blade it was as if a veil had been drawn back and he knew what he had seen was truth. What that truth meant, however, left him stumped.

What was he to do with the weapon? So much knowledge flooded his mind, body, and soul in that short span of time that had it not been for the sword's dual protection and power, Arthur's human frailties could not possibly absorb the amount of clarity and wisdom that poured into him and keep his sanity. He could not wrap his head around any of it really, as if he had been given a highly detailed map of the entire world, enough to plan even the most intricate of journeys, but it was all in fragments. Pieces so small it was a wonder he could see them at all. He rested the sword across the chair arms, tracing its perfect lines with slow, steady fingers. It was cool to his touch, flawless, not one scratch upon it even after being stuck in solid rock for years and then scraped against it when extracted.

So magical it was, too. Arthur could not deny it. The moment he touched it, the moment he truly believed in it, the sword bestowed the possibilities of the future and the secrets of the past. Its magic peeled back layers of years of deception, erroneous perceptions, and misguided beliefs,and cast them to the four winds as if they didn't matter at all. Truth and light filled the gap. Even the pain in his side had started to diminish, and for that, he was shamefully grateful. He could feel a link to the thing, like a ghostly filament stretching out to him to keep them tethered, possessive, and protective of each other.

Could the sword have chosen him? It was magic that flooded him with visions of lost secrets and forsaken truths. Of beauty and light. He had to ask himself why such magic might have reached only for him out of all those stood within that glen. It had seemed when he pulled it free to hold a sort of intelligence within, different to that of humans but there all the same, and he had to think it might be manipulating him. Could he somehow be enchanted by the blade? Or cursed? Was it, indeed, a gift?

There was no malice he could detect, no deceit and every revealed truth had not held blame. Just facets of the facts as if he were only being informed of the whole picture for the first time and free to take up or discard them at will.

"Take me up" and "Cast me away" etched in archaic symbols on either side of the gold inlay on the blade. Merlin butchered through the translation of the old language in an attempt to decipher it, nearly ruining the effect of its intended and profound meanings. Arthur had rolled his eyes and retrieved his sword then, now he smiled at the memory.

What was he to do with such an illegally magnificent and forbidden weapon? The more he held it, the surer he was that he could not part with it. The sword was part of him now and to lose it would be like gouging an eye, or a losing a leg. It was meant only for him, like being with a wise, old friend. Like being with Merlin at times.

Yet, with the visions came moments from his very life, of his father, and glimpses of futures that could be. He didn't know where to start, the familiar wrestling to the forefront to leave the past and the future behind. But they were so entwined that they were all there at once until he finally latched a thought and quickly unraveled a lie.

The last part of Merlin's version of history was not the truth. As he had suspected, it was a fabrication, yet somehow he knew it had been said and meant only to make him believe in himself again.

Still, he recognized the sword as the one his father had used to defeat the Black Knight many years ago, and then had mysteriously disappeared. He had never examined it close up, but his father had regaled him with such detailed tales of the wondrous sword that he could be certain it was the same.

He was convinced Merlin wielded it in their battle against Morgause's Immortal Army, too, having seen flashes of the blade cutting through those soldiers, though at the time he thought it looked like any other nondescript sword swinging from his hip. Had magic veiled its true qualities from the eyes of the unworthy until it saw it time? Had Merlin then taken it and embedded it within the stone? How could he do such a thing without using magic? And how had he gotten hold of it in the first place? Was Merlin consorting with sorcerers? What other secrets waited to be revealed because of his newfound knowledge? What other lies, deceptions, and omissions to uncover that would no doubt challenge their bonds of friendship and codes of honor?

There was something else. A dragon breathed life-giving fire and a watery image of a grief-tinged, yet hopeful young woman he did not recognize descended into the depths with Excalibur cross her breast. There was light, and darkness, and mysticism. Pieces of their essence imprinted upon it undeniable and a part of him now. Minutia of Gwen and her father, Thomas, was there, too. They all seemingly played a part in the handling of this sword. It did not belong to the kings of the past. It belonged to him.

There was more, so much more. A jumbled mess it was, the enormity and implications somewhat frightening to a man who thought he was grounded in purpose and reason. It could take a lifetime or three to sort it all out, though he knew its nature full well now and it was nothing short of scandalous.

What of his decrees against magic? What of his honor?

 _Magic corrupts. Sorcery is evil._

His father's words rang in his head with resounding contempt, his own thoughts merely a stuttering echo lacking all real conviction. This power he felt, was its lure the beginning of the poisoning of his soul? Would his heart eventually lust the dark and evil desires like those few he knew had fallen prey? Would he become his worst enemy, no better than Morgana? Or could there be something more? Something that might allow a modicum of tolerance, and dare he say it, trust in magic.

He'd seen sorcery used for good or something practical, to grow crops or heal the injured, and still met his father's ax, or god forbid, the flames for their benign acts to save the living. Arthur had persecuted many of them himself, and in his heart he knew it had been wrong even if his head had not allowed him to dwell on it overmuch. A dutiful subject doing as his king ordered blindly, obediently, as a trained hound with no will of his own or have any kind of opinion.

Ever since Dinaden's Mount,* when he was responsible for the slaughter of all those Druids, his blood lust had slowly shriveled and died. He had been called Courage once, and yet wasn't brave enough to stand against his father then, as First Knight nor as Army Commander, and the guilt had followed him for many years in the musts of night terrors. Even with his repentance earlier this year, it wasn't enough for true redemption in the king's eyes. Not now. Not with what he knew from the sword's influence.

So many had been wronged by his father and by him. They were all his people and he'd sworn to protect them. He'd failed. It was likely that they'd killed more innocent people than Morgana or any of the other sorcerers who'd attacked them probably had. To allow the persecutions to continue would make him as much a tyrant as his father had ever been.

These thoughts were too unsettling, they prickled at him, and he shook his head to send them away. He'd never had such intensely virulent feelings about his father, nor his decisions during his rule, and he felt as if he was betraying his memory. Uther had worked hard to bring peace to the kingdom, reigning with an iron fist and backed by the world's greatest army. His rule was absolute and he was unstoppable. As stable as it appeared on the surface, the veneer was a thin sheen masking the deeper issues and many paid a price for it. Scratch the delicate barrier his father had erected and it revealed the deep-set fear running rampant beneath. Peace had not come for all.

Arthur breathed a shuttering sigh and set the sword on the table. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and threading his hands, head resting on the laced fingers. He'd freed Excalibur when none other could. How had he done that exactly? Others clearly had given it a go. Yet, it was he who accomplished this feat and not with the blessings of bygone kings as Merlin had wanted him to believe. He was not so naive as Merlin seemed to think, nor as stupid. The man had clearly manipulated the situation thinking he would never notice. He should really be insulted by that, but he was distracted by what had really allowed him to take the sword.

It was magic, Arthur admitted again to himself, his eyes mesmerized by the sparkling gold inlay with the strange writing. Merlin seemed to have known he would be able to pull it out. It screamed of his asking for help from illicit sources best left alone, though there was no hard evidence and to anyone without the knowledge embedded within the sword, his involvement had only been encouragement and faith. Nonetheless, his ploy had worked.

Why would Merlin put him in such a precarious position? Why would he publicly trick him to perform so treasonous an act? Did he not think Excalibur would affect him so? Was this an unforeseen consequence with the melding of its magic and his? He didn't have magic, but he was born of it. Could that somehow have triggered the unexpected release of the knowledge of the ages siphoned from the crafters of the weapon?

Perhaps, it was meant to be. He knew it was meant to be. Arthur chewed his lower lip as he thought on one of the crafters.

Dragoon, the Great. The doddery sorcerer who'd saved Guinevere was the same who'd killed his father. The man whose eyes seemed familiar was a menacing contradiction and would be executed on sight if he were ever caught in Camelot. Just who the hell was he? And why did Arthur's gut feeling tell him that the man was as vital to Camelot as he was? Why would he want to help bring about the time of Albion? Why would a sorcerer even care about the unification of kingdoms, especially if these kingdoms were bent on the elimination of his kind?

More importantly, and damn near upsetting were that the visions from Excalibur of his past, of campaigns and expeditions that he had taken part. Dragoon was prominent in all of them, and they did not play out the way he remembered. The sorcerer had saved his life on countless numbers of times if what Excalibur bestowed was fact. Then why would he do that? It did not make sense. His thoughts naturally wandered to Merlin.

Merlin, the clumsy, the loyal, the occasional voice of wisdom, knew an awful lot about an awful lot of things. The Sword. The Stone. The assembly of witnesses. The timing of their arrival was too coincidental. Had he worked it all out with Leon and the others? If that were possible, then how on Earth did Merlin find them, let alone manage to get a message to them? He'd believed from the beginning that they were in the Forest of Ascetir, and once again, he proved to be right.

That still did not explain how this was all set up in so short a time regardless of its significance. The manservant had a lot of explaining to do when this battle was over and he would not be accepting the half-baked excuses he generally gave. There were too many times to count where he had passed over the inconsistent details for the sake of more pressing matters in the wake of any given crisis, putting it down as a character quirk, annoying and often entertaining, but not dangerous. He would not forget or be so dismissive in the future.

Arthur leaned back in the chair. "The time for lies is over, Merlin."

He reached for the sword and laid it across the arms of the chair again, an insatiable desire to keep it near disturbing him. "Damn it," he cursed, tapping a finger on the blade but making no move to place it out of reach again. "This is most unnatural."

What of his honor? How could he keep such an unlawful thing and face his people? It was hypocritical for him to covet so powerful an artifact and not pay the same consequence that many of his subjects had, death by sword, fire, ax, or rope. Something electric, the oddest of sensations, passed through his fingers and his worry suddenly eased. Whatever Excalibur was, his heart and intellect knew it was not a bad thing, and with no regret, he would keep it, treasure it. To everyone else, with the exception of Merlin who perhaps had more than a mere inkling of what this weapon was capable of, it was just an honorary, yet extraordinary sword.

The flap of the tent thumped opened and Leon stuck his head inside.

"All is ready, sire," he said, stepping in fully as Herschel, his young squire, pinned back the flaps and then stood guard at the entrance. With Leon at Arthur's left, they both smiled their approval. A soldier in the making.

The king was saddened, however, to learn that Leon's family had not made it out of the city with him, noticing their absence right away on their return from the glen. His heart ached for all his citizens, few whole families having escaped intact. For most of them, there was someone they loved still trapped inside Camelot or died a casualty of war. They had suffered so much, fighting for their lives yet again. Will there ever be a time of peace for his people and his kingdom? Yes, he answered with the surety of a future glimpsed. He would see to it or die trying.

Arthur nodded somberly, picking up Excalibur and thrusting it through his belt as he stood. Its blade was sharp and deadly without the scabbard and yet somehow he knew it would never cut him. He would have one made worthy of it once things settled back in Camelot. He had every reason to believe that would be very soon. He would not allow himself to think of failure.

In high contrast, he could not have been more proud of Leon in what he'd accomplished, rallying so many of their vassals and allies that answered the call to war. The mark of a true leader never shone brighter for the First Knight and Commander. He would do everything in his power to reunite him with his family and reward him for his fealty and staunch devotion to king and country.

Uther vehemently resisted the call for aid in their times of need at every insistence, believing it showed weakness. He would allow no show of vulnerability, resulting in the unnecessary suffering of their people and kingdom. While Arthur challenged his father's prideful decisions on those occasions, that flaw still imprinted upon the younger Pendragon, causing Arthur to fail miserably in the area of diplomatic reliance of resources from allies. He had not thought of aid during his week of misery over losing his kingdom. That hard lesson now helped for a wiser reign, and by restoring old alliances and forging new ones, he truly believed having friends made for a stronger kingdom. He would never allow his pride to stand in the way of protecting Camelot again.

Lacing his fingers behind his back and squaring his shoulders, he pulled himself up to his full height as lords, knights, and commanders of the kingdom piled into the tent. As a matter of protocol, Arthur would normally take audience with the monarchs of the other realms first. They were there for his need, offering the lives of their citizens and resources from their lands in a war that could potentially affect them all. No doubt they would have questions he was sure he could not answer as yet, though King Bayard probably had a speech already prepared.

But times were not normal. Arthur chose to have council with his men first, to gather as much intelligence on the state of his kingdom, to feel its cruel sting now and not be caught off guard later. It was the prudent thing to do and the only way he would be able to make sound decisions when in the company of his fellow rulers.

The king made it a point to look directly at every face that entered the tent, to shake every hand. The majority of the lords present had fled Camelot, the state of their appearance testimony to the hardship they endured of late. Lord Gregory and just a handful of vassals not affected by the invasion rounded out that group, though honestly, he was a little disappointed in their numbers. The ones who had the most to lose showed little interest, or courage, to fight and keep it. He might have something to say to them when the crisis was over, and if he survived.

He wasn't surprised to see Gwen and Merlin follow the knights into the tent. They were normal fixtures in council meetings of the past. It felt comfortable, familiar, and reminiscent of better days, though even with Excalibur's power surging through him, he hadn't the courage to go anywhere near Guinevere, having not spoken to her since he reproached her so dismissively yesterday. But he was curious when Isolde and Tristan entered. He didn't think they wanted anything more to do with him, or his kingdom after the slaughter of their friends and loss of their valuable cargo all because of him. Fredrick was the only regular soldier in attendance, the others remaining on detail to protect their people. To the chagrin of Arthur, he hovered behind Gwen as a mother hen over a chick, as if it was still his place to be her shield, though he'd not since relieved him of that duty.

Leon stood before the War Council, tall and proud. His report from scouts sent to infiltrate the city disheartened many, however, informing the king of the entire harvest lost to fire set deliberately on Morgana's order. They would have a lean season this coming winter without the aid of their friends. The near destruction of the lower town with homes constructed mostly of wood and thatch ravaged by the fires at the onset of the war was also a great loss. The Citadel and empty cottages of the upper and middle towns would remain home to so many whilst they rebuilt, those that had survived such carnage at any rate.

He saw Gwen's hands shoot to her mouth, the tears gathering behind part closed lids. Most of her friends lived there and fewer of them were with them now. He wanted her to look at him, to let her see his sorrow and his sympathy, but she kept her eyes on Leon awaiting the next installment of dire tidings, so then he did also.

"All of our knights and soldiers that were captured are imprisoned. We don't know how many have been killed since. We have exposed a few of the weaknesses in Helios' guard rotations and a reliable schedule of their patrols, but we don't know their exact numbers."

"Sire," Lord Gregory added. "She has three sorcerers in her ranks." A collective gasp filled the room followed by total silence. Kolby had by then reported to Gregory that Maxwell had eliminated one sorcerer at the Southron encampment. They chose again to not inform the king of that one detail.

Both Leon and Arthur looked to the lord of Clarwick from the modest township in the south, their eyebrows raised. "You know this how?" the king asked.

"It was in the report –" Kolby began.

"—that I never received," Arthur finished, as flat and bitter as last year's ale. So much could have been done to prepare and protect the kingdom had he received that message. Much could have been saved.

"I sent a near duplicate to Lord Gregory which was delivered directly to him." Clarwick's First Knight addressed the council. "The king's was intercepted and disinformation replaced it." Maxwell and Kolby both looked to Lord Gregory and Arthur, apology within every line. But there was little they could have done without knowing of the treachery.

Arthur told of the affair at Chime, and the lords and knights from its garrison erupted with shock and disgust at the implications of it. The king calmed them with assurances that the bird keeper would face justice in due time, but they must swear to silence until then. They must not tip their hand to Morgana nor give her any idea of their information. Anything they could do to gain an advantage over her would be a boon, especially with three other magic users at her beck and call.

He thought back to how Merlin and Sir Maxwell arrived at the conclusion that sorcery spun the interception and corruption of stately and personal communications coming into and leaving Castle Chime. It had been a fascinating thing to watch really, as if they were reading each other's minds to finish the other's thought, ticking off the pros and cons for an operation of that scale. It was as if they had already thought through the angles needed to perform such a feat long before expressing them then. As if they had had cause at some point in time to consider using forgery themselves.

With that thought came something from the past, a niggling of a memory for the king, something about a forgery plot uncovered by Geoffrey, but then the agreeable clamor that suddenly erupted provided no chance to grab hold of it. Maxwell had said something encouraging, but whatever it was, was lost on Arthur.

The clamor died and Leon proceeded to give the numbers of knights, soldiers, lords, and citizens enlisted to fight, not including those of their allies. It was important to show the other kingdoms that nearly all their abled-bodied rallied to fight; few would maintain the camp or care for the injured.

Arthur's eyes wandered around the crowded tent full of color from his townships until they found Sir Maxwell. The young man reminded him an awful lot of Merlin, though everything about their physical appearance and station in life were polar opposites. It was something else, something more along the line of a kinship they seemed to innately share, and this made Arthur twinge with a bit of suspicion, if not jealousy in which he quickly shrugged off.

He was being ridiculous, too protective. The man had a way of making friends with anyone. Even a king. He had never been able to dislodge him even in those early days of resentfully tolerating him, and he'd stuck like a barnacle. Now their lives clung together more tightly, twisted around until they could hardly be separated. He was secure in the bond he forged with Merlin. Though he never spoke of the fondness he held for his friend of many years, he hoped that Merlin knew of it. Words were never really necessary between them, and the words that mattered were felt in the heart and seen through deed. Besides, Merlin could very well take care of himself when he needed to. The man had a rarest kind of bravery than anyone he knew.

But now, things had changed. There was a new dynamic and he had as yet not figured out what it all meant. Time enough when things had settled and if they all survived the coming battle. For now, he would live in the moment and let the future take care of itself.

…..

The audience with Queen Annis and the other kings was encouraging to an extent.

Troops were not a problem, the odds in their favor now at least ten to one, though Arthur insisted no more than one battalion from each of his allies, and only then to be used as the second wave, if necessary. His men and any of his citizens who chose to fight would be on the front. It was their city and their right to defend her. The monarchs' respect barreled up a notch, for he saw it in their faces and their every move.

Morgana, on the other hand, and the sorcerers with her did present a problem. The High Priestess was powerful enough, but with the help of her magic-wielding followers, their odds decreased to even or against. Arthur knew that some of his allies allowed the practice of magic within their borders, and in an insane moment, he wished they had their sorcerers with them. He could not very well say that aloud, effectively condoning the use of magic within his borders and relying on it instead of man power and true grit. Yet, realistically, that may be the only way to defeat them. Sorcery against sorcery since swords had proven to have very little effect against his half-sister in the past.

"Southrons are men like you and me. Men we can fight, but Morgana…" He shook his head, scanning the faces in the tent. "Her power is so great and we've got nothing to answer it with." He didn't know why his eyes landed on Maxwell and then slipped to Merlin. He leaned back in his chair, placing a hand on the hilt of Excalibur, and images of Dragoon flashed through his mind. He shifted uncomfortably.

"She is not infallible, Arthur," Annis said. The Queen of Gwynedd's fading ginger hair hanging long, a modest serpentine silver band, thin and fine, graced her crown and held back thin tendrils in a neat style. The animal furs and leathers worn by queen and subjects reminded Arthur of the people in the north, their lands in a constant state of snow and ice. A hardy and intelligent people, and Annis a lady sharper than most of her men. Her discerning blue eyes could size a man in a matter of seconds, and heaven help any of them who crossed her.

She'd even waged war against Arthur once, thirty thousand warriors strong, when he slew her king and husband in brutal - and what they both thought at the time - cowardly fashion. The trial by combat with one champion from each camp facing each other man-to-man in a duel to the death was Arthur's suggestion and his fight to bear. His victory saved many lives despite Morgana's assurances to the queen beforehand that her magic would lead to his failure.

The queen had craved revenge for Arthur's cruel regicide at the time, but it was Morgana who had not succeeded, the enchanted sword he wielded not enough for the king to be defeated by her champion after all. Arthur had gained her deepest respect that day, and now they sat as allies against Morgana.

She did not think the bright future she now saw would have happened under the witch, not with the knowledge of their respective characters. Morgana was bent on fulfilling her own ends and did not care at all for the people she would rule. Arthur, for all his flaws, saw his kingdom for what it was and not what he could squeeze from it with little thought to the consequences.

"Even high priestesses have faults." Annis saw that ember of faith she held in him breathe back to full life the moment he freed the sword from the stone. She saw hope for them all at last spark from the impossible. She'd known something special about this young king since the battle at the Ridge of Landshire, and it was her honor to be an ally and friend of the man who would bring in a new age, even if she did not live to see it. He was a breath of fresh air amongst the old regime.

"Indeed," the King of Mercia replied, rising to his feet. Bayard was tall, his features rugged and handsome, a fit man well into his fifties who obviously still trained with his men. Thick and wavy chestnut hair hung to his shoulders streaked with silver like his well-trimmed beard and mustache. Arthur relaxed a little and rested his eyes on the other king. "We have numbers and the advantage of surprise. She can't defeat us all."

Bayard was a great communicator who stirred hearts and souls, and relished giving speeches to whomever he captured. Long speeches, and by the way he stood and addressed the council, everyone knew he would be at it for a while. Arthur settled in for the duration, but was willing to bet that his sister could stop them all. He had seen first-hand what she was capable of and could only wonder if they would indeed be enough.

…..

Maxwell did not need to get close to Excalibur to know it was extraordinary. He saw it for himself, his own special kind of magic allowing him to sense and see the power it held, its aura a constant roaring fire, burning fierce and strong.

And now the King of Camelot had one too, though his aura only manifested when the sword was on his person. Knowingly, when the weapon exchanged hands, passed around for inspection by the stunned spectators after Arthur drew it from the rock, it kept its magic contained, quiescent, just for him, yet surprisingly and not, for his servant, too.

The knight marveled at the weapon and its remarkable transformation of the king. He'd seen magical swords in Helva, there were plenty of them. Those swords required some kind of incantation or spell for one or two specific deeds and paled in light of Excalibur's many attributes. He didn't know how it could be possible or even how he knew, but he could tell it was forged in dragon's breath. Imbued with great and ancient magic, Excalibur's supernatural purity melded with the king's and reflected its qualities on him. Within him. Only him.

Arthur felt the magic. From that first moment, he had seen how the man reacted to the sword's presence. His very essence was filled with the knowledge of ages and Maxwell witnessed the king all but alter in mind and spirit if not in body, his talent allowing him glimpses of how the magic worked upon him.

Maxwell saw the look of wonderment, of awe that crossed the king's face. He saw the slight shiver as waves of magic gently poured into him. The knight was even more impressed that the king managed to keep his composure and accept the weapon for what was, and not cast it aside as a cursed thing.

The king had magic on his side whether he knew it or not and in more forms than one.

There were a few knights, noblemen, and commoners with the glow of magic in every kingdom present, though the dormant ones were mostly only of Camelot. He wasn't surprised none of them spoke up when Arthur mentioned the challenges they faced against Morgana, with them being at the heart of the kingdom where their kind was relentlessly hunted and summarily slaughtered during Uther's draconian reign, and then also with Arthur when he was old enough to lead the charge. If the young king only knew how much power was at his disposal, he would not have a worry even with his inner hope that he had some. His subtle hint that they had nothing to counteract Morgana and her sorcerers was not lost on Maxwell. Nor on Merlin.

He was startled at first at the strength and depth of Merlin's aura, just barely reaching manhood he was, scrawny, and non-threatening on a measure. Vulnerable and innocent looking as if a stiff wind might break him. But a core of steel ran through him, tempered in fires hotter and more terrible than he had ever experienced.

Their odds were better than their king realized, though he doubted whether Arthur knew of his manservant's gift given how Fredrick reacted to his own magic at first. It was a living, breathing fear, a beast that had taken solid hold over Camelot and her citizens over twenty-five years ago, holding it hostage and entrenching its dread into their everyday lives. Only recently had they lessened when Arthur became king. But only just a little.

Now that he was gifted with Excalibur, would the king see sorcery and his kind as still a threat? Still believe in the one-sided argument he'd lived all his life? Or would he finally see beyond that single viewpoint, realize there was more to the world than one small corner of it and see magic for what it truly represented?

Only time and deed would tell.

…..

* "Keys to the Past," by KIMMIKY


	14. Son of the Earth

**A/N: Hello, my friends. Last chapter was mostly all about Arthur. This one is all about Merlin whose been sorely missing from the action. It was long overdue and I hope you enjoy.**

 **Thanks again to KIMMIKY, my muse and inspiration across the pond.**

 **Many thanks to you for reading my humble story, and to those who have taken the time to leave a review, your feedback mean a lot and they keep me going.**

 **As usual, I don't own Merlin.**

….…

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 14 Son of the Earth

He barely noticed the red-gold embers and sparks dancing in the pit so close to him nor its heat penetrating the bare surfaces of his skin to near burning, Merlin's thoughts solely on Morgana and the three other sorcerers standing in the way of their victory. Four people that held the entire battle in their terrible hands.

The camp had settled for the night, most of Arthur's men preferring to sleep in the open rather than the tents offered by their allies. The night air before battle was what they needed, damp and cooling; the nocturnal sounds calming, familiar; a lullaby to most of them. They'd moved to half a day's ride from the castle walls and being this close to home was comforting even though the march to battle and potential death would begin shortly before dawn.

Merlin was quite pleased with himself. Excalibur was where it belonged and Arthur…well, he could tell there was something different about the king. Imbued with his blood the weapon reacted only to Arthur's touch, though he still could not have removed it if he had not believed that he could.

Arthur was conceived with magic, innocence borne to the ruin of them all, the life-altering and blood-drenched pact between a selfish king and an ambitious witch were paid with not only his mother's life. The ancient secrets of the weapon were loosed by the king's own life source and eventuated a side effect he had not considered. The sword, crafted with the skill and pride of a master blacksmith and powered by the ancient fire of a dragon, was never used or brandished before Kilgharrah breathed on it. When first he held the transformed weapon, he felt its unadulterated power tamed, reserved, waiting for someone other than him, forged for none other than Arthur Pendragon. He did not know the extent of its true power until it bound to the king.

How Arthur would accept it, he was uncertain.

On two separate occasions, the sword had been used and came back slightly tainted. First, unintendedly when Uther wielded it against the Black Knight, despite his best attempts at keeping it from him, the evils it absorbed from the black-hearted king and the foul wraith-knight became a part of it. And then again with intent in Merlin's fight against the Immortal Army, each time it touched an undead soldier left a mark of impurity. The numinous power of the Lady of the Lake had somewhat lessened the influence of the wickedness that befell it whilst in her charge and the lake itself, the passageway of the dead had also imbued it with knowledge from all the ages past. All the combined experience of deceased Pendragons and the countless ancestors of others.

Would the king realize his deception?

When Arthur and the sword connected, even the protection of his glove could not restrain his inner power nor hold back the tide of wisdom and knowledge it bestowed upon him in glorious fashion. It filled Arthur with more than just confidence. He had visibly changed, and Merlin wondered if that was why the Great Dragon always insisted that only Arthur wield the weapon, a gift of enlightenment in the right hands or a curse of damnation in the wrong. An amplification of one's own true nature, a good man becoming better, a bad one becoming worse. What exactly he experienced, the king had not let known, but how magic affected his beliefs and mindset now was a conversation Merlin both dreaded and anticipated.

Arthur was right, though to hear him voice such sentiments was more than a little disconcerting at first, the subtlety of the king's consideration to use magic as a tactic the first indication to Merlin that he was most decidedly different. The Southrons were undisciplined sell-sword dressed as soldiers, and if caught by surprise would be no match for Camelot's revitalized strike force. Men they could fight.

The High Priestess and her sorcerers tipped the balance in the enemy's favor, however, even with Camelot's numbers they had no answer for them, not with the stance the city and indeed the entire kingdom's usual stance on the practice. It did not surprise Merlin that no one stepped forward during the war council, given Arthur's violent history against sorcerers, the subtlety of his comments lost on them all.

Well, he amended, not entirely all. He had caught the inference and perhaps there were some amongst the rest of the company who had also perked up though he was certain none would take action. At least not openly. Since Excalibur was free, its power seemed not be exclusive to Arthur. Merlin kept feeling fleeting brushes of magic against his conscience, subtle, happy magic that promised no real harm. He couldn't pinpoint where it came from and didn't want to, really. It was safer for everyone to not know. Unless they were there to harm Arthur, his citizens, or his allies he would not seek them out, and such uplifting magic reminded him of the peace loving Druids, not the revenge-fueled sorcerers he'd been forced by circumstance to battle in the past. Could it be that since he helped create the sword that his magic was a little bit sharper and he could somehow sense a calm and relatively stable magic?

Now, if only he could come up with a plan where he could use his own magic, not expose himself, and certainly not get killed, he could possibly even their odds. A thousand questions flashed through his mind, and sadly, the answers were not at all encouraging. His thoughts ended up being rapid chaotic tangles, a heated internal debate spanning many minutes and leaving him entirely oblivious to the outside world.

How could he use magic to stop Morgana without Arthur finding out? _Don't let him see me cast the spell. Obvious._ "I am, after all, still more powerful than she is, I think," he whispered, with subdued yet cautionary pride.

But Morgana had grown powerful too and was able to be unsubtle about her show of strength. Everyone knew what **she** could do. So how could he fight against a powerful High Priestess in front of Arthur without revealing **his** magic? _Not possible._ _Not directly at least_. "I may as well place my head on the chopping block for him."

 _Well then, Merlin, what will be the best defense not just for Arthur, or Gwen, but anyone I care about if I can't use my magic outright? A protection spell, perhaps?_ "Too noticeable, even the oblivious prat may become _suspicious_ if a sword to the heart did not kill him." Merlin chuckled at how dense Arthur had been at times, mostly accepting and not questioning some of the outrageous excuses he'd let drop without even thinking, but then he quickly sobered knowing that now the king would not be so easily deceived.

 _Come on, Merlin!_ What spells did he know that would cause the most harm to Morgana and the sorcerers? _A killing spell? Again, far too obvious._ "And I've got to find them all first. That could be tricky considering I don't know any tracking spells."

Arthur would pursue Morgana, he was sure of that. He would allow no other to tackle the problem his sister represented, so he must remain with the king to keep him safe. Sword or no sword he had no defense against her brand of sorcery. No matter what spell he used, he would have to speak such a powerful enchantment aloud to cast it. A death sentence to be sure. If he must expose himself, then he would because Arthur must survive.

But Merlin was not yet ready to die. There had to be a solution.

 _Gods and Goddesses, how do I keep a powerful High Priestess from killing us all with Arthur so close?_ "I must make the first strike." Perhaps he was looking at this the wrong way and instead of throwing power at the problem he must use subtlety. _Something she would not expect._

But how? _Enchant her without her knowledge?_ "She'd be at a definite disadvantage in such a situation."

 _Enchant her with what? A binding spell? A poppet?_ "Hmmm. That could work."

 _To do that, what would I need? What must I do? How do I get close enough to Morgana to keep her from killing us? How could_ _ **I**_ _get close enough...?_

A smile slowly came to his lips just this side of sly, the genius of his plan coming together with perfect clarity and Merlin quickly stood, heading toward the latrine ditch, only the merest hint of a spring in his step so that no one would suspect him leaving the camp nor see him when he turned west. He had to get to Camelot tonight. The longer he could unknowingly drain Morgana's magic the longer it would last in the battle and the harder she would find it to break.

Through all of his internalized tussle, he had remained unaware of the night around him, trusting in his guise as a trustworthy, but idiotic fool to slide all unwanted gazes away. If he had looked over to his right he may have been understandably horrified to note the intense scrutiny, borne of the curiosity he had engendered within the mind of a certain young knight. But he never thought to look and remained ignorant even when the man left his own warm bedroll to follow him.

…..

The range of emotions that played across Merlin's face was that of someone trying to solve a problem or someone plotting a great deal of mischief and believing they had the beginnings of something marvelous. Maxwell saw all the expressions of uncertainty turn to hopefulness from his sleeping spot by a downed tree. He watched Merlin argue with himself intensely then come to agreement with a great deal of evidently smug satisfaction before leaving with a slightly swaggering stride in the direction of the latrine. He rose quickly, quietly, and followed his fellow sorcerer. Something was stirring in the winds and he had an inkling he'd want, no, needed to be part of it.

Arthur, upon returning from late counsel with Queen Annis, saw them both leave one after the other. "Where on Earth are they going?" he asked himself, the flap of his tent in his hand. This was not the first time his manservant mysteriously disappeared, sometimes for days at a time only to return with some ridiculous excuse like his most recent one of knocking himself out when he stumbled over a root while searching for herbs in the middle of the night and then getting lost.

Arthur had been a gullible fool to let such nonsense pass unchecked. That incident happened on the same night that Elyan escaped from the dungeons after his second assassination attempt on him and Arthur never bothered to put the two together until now. But just lately he had been adding up the facts and very little of his servant's activities added up correctly. Most often two and two would add up to five or three, or some ridiculously long complex number he would never believe in a million years. The king sighed, so much coming into focus now and yet leaving greater confusion in its wake. He went into the tent. Whatever they were up to, Merlin and Maxwell both, they'd better have a damn good explanation for deserting the camp so close to battle. And be back in time for the start or so help him he would have them in the stocks for a month and use them as target practice with potatoes every day, twice a day if they missed the battle entirely.

…..

Maxwell was not in the habit of confronting anyone about their magic, it was not his place to judge or condemn or reveal their secret to them or anyone else. It was suicidal too, if it backfired and exposed his own secrets somehow, he could die himself.

But Merlin was different than any other sorcerer he'd ever encountered and lured the knight like a moth to flames, enough possibly that to burn for him didn't seem so farfetched. Despite his age and station, his truly scrawny, mild mannered and yes, dilapidated outward appearance, the servant had intelligence and wisdom, gentleness and compassion, qualities that his great power thrived upon, not consumed. Destiny had somehow brought him to the most unsafe place in the kingdom for someone like him, let alone the manservant to a king who by his own laws would execute him if he knew what he truly was. In so many ways, Merlin was special. He felt compelled to speak to him, their talents desperately needed in so dire a situation, and his curiosity was so damn insatiable. There was no choice in it. He had to speak to him.

The swish of a tree limb snapping softly back into place was all the warning Merlin needed to be on high alert. It could be any number of nocturnal creatures foraging, plenty of activity this time of night, this time of year. But he learned a long time ago to trust his feelings; his instincts had saved his life on more than one occasion, though his zeal sometimes did lead to detrimental outcomes. He was reckless, he knew, but this time Merlin was positive he was being followed. He took a sharp left turn around a wide oak, cast a concealment spell, and waited.

Maxwell should have seen Merlin continue past the oak, but there was no visible sign of him. He bit his lip, sighed, and continued in the direction the sorcerer had been traveling. West, toward Camelot.

The knight's eyes widened with awe because he knew Merlin used a powerful spell to conceal his aura and block his ability to sense him, his presence had just winked out of existence. No one had ever done that before. Maxwell stopped and surveyed the now empty darkness. With any other sorcerer, he could easily see the concealment spell because it was magic itself and would still manifest in his inner vision. Merlin's power was undeniable, though, and Maxwell spoke into the black void the night had become. "I know you're here, Merlin."

Maxwell walked right past Merlin just as he stepped from his hiding place behind the oak, yet still hidden with magic. This time, he pursued, the concealment spell absorbing his footfall and even the soft sound of his breathing. Only a few paces to the right of the knight, the warlock checked he wouldn't easily see him and removed the spell.

"Why are you following me?" Merlin asked with suspicion, his anxiety at Maxwell's motives deepening his voice and imbuing it with a subtle power.

Maxwell spun around, startled but for only a second. "Because you need me," he replied more calmly than his pounding heart.

Sir Maxwell had a familiar sense about him despite the fact that Merlin had never seen him before yesterday. The way they fell into a rhythm and methodically processed the treachery at Chime seemed like they'd been working together closely for many years. It was a pleasurable experience in retrospect, the operation they came up with later to capture the bird keeper even more scintillating. Still, what he had to do tonight, a knight could not help. "I'm just going for a walk." Merlin haughtily passed him. "I want to be alone."

"A walk this late at night in a war camp with Morgana's forces just round the corner? I'm not a fool Merlin." Maxwell's tone was so mild, a statement of fact with no real criticism attached. Merlin merely looked at him, saying nothing, telling him with his reticence and the arrogant set to his shoulders he could believe what he liked. Maxwell sighed within his own mind as the sorcerer turned away again. He was obviously not used to anyone noticing anything. Just how many times had he done something similar? "I know what you intend to do," he said, not deterred by what he knew were lies designed to protect his true activities and coming into stride with him. "I can help."

Merlin came to a hard stop. His voice was level, unpretentious from years of practice, any panic he might be feeling well hidden behind those depthless eyes. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

Maxwell considered his answer. It was understandable that the sorcerer would not be forthcoming, they were strangers, and trust had to be earned in today's world and most certainly if one had magic. When he replied, it was earnest, honest, and as unthreatening as possible. "I have magic." It was startling how freeing it was to say it out loud like this and to a man he barely knew.

The warlock's lips parted with an intake of air, clearly startled and a little fearful. " _What?_ "

"I was thirteen when I came into it, scared the hell out of me. Especially because of the law, the hatred, and persecutions, and being a squire at Lord Gregory's manor was not a good place to be. I didn't know what to do, and there was no kind of privacy in the barracks, so I had little chance to rage. Was constantly at outs with the other boys because in the little free time we were given, I would disappear into the woods just to get some peace from the constant struggle. I had to contain it. If I'd been more of an emotional type, I think I would have been exposed long ago. When I finally accepted what I was—that took a hell of a lot of time of course and Sir Ector's help—I had to embrace it, else I would have lost my mind I think or been found out and killed. I didn't learn any spells until I became a knight and was able to visit Helva a few times a year. Told everyone else I was going to live off the land around Stowell for a spell. You know, a rite of passage in the wilderness with little more than a horse, a few provisions, and a sword."

"Sounds kind of dangerous." Merlin's voice sounded both awed and fascinated in equal measure.

"What? Helva, being a sorcerer in one of the most dangerous kingdoms there is, or the lies?"

Merlin didn't know how to answer that with the many secrets he had to contain, so he stayed silent. He understood the lying. It was a constant companion since he was old enough to recognize the reasons for doing so. His shoulders unconsciously drooped with the weight of his guilt. It, along with all of its consequences added to the muck that he was a sorcerer only intensifying the danger and complexity of his life.

"Indeed, it was," Maxwell admitted, bobbing his head. "All of it. Lord Gregory became suspicious with so many tales from my squire mates, and then the lone trips as a knight, I think he thought I was some kind of spy, had me followed on one occasion. I don't think he knew the truth was supposedly far worse in the eyes of the law. When I returned, he summoned me to his privy chamber surrounded by his most-trusted knights. He outright accused me of sorcery. He was quite harsh and unforgiving. He said if I denied it, I'd surely be executed anyway. I was terrified, more than at any point in my life so far. So I told the truth.

"Turned out my Lord was a lot more sympathetic toward sorcerers than anyone would have guessed, thought them advantageous, and was really only testing my honor. I guessed over the years he had a couple more tucked away somewhere, but we, none of us, knew of the others. Because of my abilities, I could tell they were not in the military. There was another squire once, but he was killed by mercenaries whilst on patrol." He still remembered his comrade, his kin, though they had not been friends. They had never gotten along, the other too arrogant and self-assured, and constantly amused himself with tricks that bordered on cruelty against others that always made like accidents. Maxwell never laughed at those.

"Lord Gregory released me, giving me my own quarters, and even some tomes to study. He told me that if I were found out by the wrong people, he'd deny everything and put me to death himself. I believe that was his way of assuring me I wouldn't go to the flames. It was actually rather comforting in a way." He paused for a moment of reflection, gaze far away and slightly puzzled. Merlin patiently waited entirely captivated by such a tale despite himself.

"Very odd. You'd be amazed at how many people so far removed from Camelot that really are sympathetic, or tolerant, or simply just look away. We're more trouble to their comfortable lives than most want to deal with; all of them unaware of what we do to protect them."

So true, Merlin thought. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd saved Arthur, or Gwen, or Camelot from a threat or a creature intent on harm and everyone turned a blind eye on how they'd actually rid themselves of them, and even if he did something heroic in plain sight it was laughed off as a fluke. It seemed his life was full of peril, strife, heartache, loneliness, he could go on with all the negative epithets, and only Gaius and the Great Dragon knew of it. Neither of them could truly share his burdens, nor understand the sacrifices he'd made to keep them safe.

The sorcerer-knight sobered. "Lord Gregory never threatened me again, and I gave him no reason to. But a few weeks later, the manor caught fire and his family was trapped inside. I managed to save them with magic before the fire consumed them and his precious manor, mostly." He smiled then, a much more carefree, boyish grin than Merlin had been able to muster in this last year or so. "He always believed that magic could be used for good. He was grateful for my help, though, he did tell me I could be a bit quicker about it next time." Oh, to live a life so close to normal, even with the burden of responsibility magic gave to a person.

He should not be so swayed, so affected by such stories. A lifetime of fear could not be easily influenced by a stranger's confession no matter how much trust it showed and Merlin was still exceptionally wary. Maxwell was a knight, practically a lord and far removed from the dark clouds that hung over the lands closer to Camelot, and he did not know him well enough to gauge his honor. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want you to trust me." He was hoping Merlin would share his secret and he sighed when he did not, covering his disappointment with a confident smile that flashed across his face. "Like I said, you need me. Whatever you're planning to do has to do with the sorcerers." He hesitated then for the merest fraction of a second and Merlin wondered what else there could be to make him look so solemn and yet so self-assured. "I have another ability that can help us find them, Merlin. I can see people with magic and I can sense it also."

Merlin's jaw worked and his eyes glazed over. Was he saying what he thought he was? "Um, I…" He was exposed without performing magic or even getting caught mentioning it, and there was no way he could deny it if what the knight said was true. He should have been nervous, terrified, but strangely he wasn't. If he could deny it, he wasn't sure if he would. Maxwell knew his secret, and yet he still felt safe.

"It's all right," the knight said. "I know you can face them alone, but I want you to know that you don't have to." He held out his arm and Merlin took it firmly after only the barest of hesitations, acquiescing with just a nod. For what more could he do? "You're secret is safe with me."

Maxwell smiled innocuously, reassuringly, then became all business. "I assume you're going after Morgana?" Merlin nodded. "Once we're inside the castle, I will be able to find the other sorcerers…and then…kill them."

Merlin visibly showed his displeasure, his composure commanding now, his arms crossed. "No. It's too dangerous. You could get caught. Or killed. And killing the sorcerers outright could just bring Morgana's wrath to the fore if she knew of it. It's too dangerous a move so early in the game."

Maxwell hummed. "It's a risk worth taking. We can hit them on two fronts now, which are surely better odds. We're at war, and hard decisions must be made."

A deadly encounter to retake Camelot was real and imminent, and Merlin knew there was no doubt Maxwell's abilities could be useful. If he could attack Morgana's magic at the same time as Maxwell took on the sorcerers, Morgana might never know until too late that her powerful allies would not come to her aid.

"We're losing the night, Merlin. Do you have a better plan?"

"Very well. You can search for Morgana's followers, but only on one condition." Maxwell cocked his head. "Only observe tonight. Gather whatever information you can. Tomorrow, we take them together. Morgana has to be dealt with first."

Ah. How could he have forgotten how shrewd the man really was so soon? Maxwell yielded with a nod, and Merlin smiled satisfactorily. "Let's talk on the way," the Warlock said, resuming his hurried stride and covering distance in one step that most would take in three. "I'll use a transportation spell to get us closer to the castle once we're safely clear of the camp. It could be problematic if I just popped in out of thin air and someone is around. noisy and messy at times depending on what's nearby."

Maxwell was shocked but didn't miss a step to keep up with the warlock. They were about the same height, but Merlin's legs were longer. "You can do that?" It took an inordinate amount of power for such a spell, and complete control. He'd been told it was a very dangerous practice.

Merlin just shrugged, a goofy grin on his face. "A dragon taught me, reluctantly mind you. He, uh, got tired of me asking for a ride. I'll get us as close to the castle as I can. It could be problematic if I just popped in out of thin air indoors and someone was around." There were two types of teleportation spells, one preferred by the sorcerers of light magic, and the more turbulent one performed by agents of darkness.

The knight's eyes had grown large again and he laughed. "I should have known. You're a Dragonlord, too. You have the strongest aura I've ever seen. In fact, I've never seen anything like it."

The pace slowed, decelerating to a brisk walk. "Why?" he asked intensely curious, his eyes wide with a tinge of wonderment. "What do you see?"

The few who he knew that had magic and knew the full extent of his gifts always asked that question. He didn't always tell them, it was not always a good idea, but there was so much innocence in the sound of Merlin's voice that he just could not resist responding with a wide smile. "Well, all sorcerers have a thin layer of light about them, like a second skin, I suppose." He talked with his hands, making sweeping gestures and hand signs for emphasis and visual effect. "The dormant ones are really faint, atrophy I think, like a limb that never gets used. But the powerful ones, or the ones who practice their magic regularly, the aura is a little thicker, and so much brighter, and shines with basic colors of differing shades. With you, well, it's radiating outward like a sunburst not a layer at all. And its color: you're…golden…with flashes of every other color running through it, like the rays of the sun shining through rain clouds and making a rainbow in every drop. Nothing like any other sorcerer ever. I saw a unicorn once from a distance when I'd just gained my spurs and that radiated outward but still not like yours. When yours touches those you love or care about, it seems to curl round them somehow."

Merlin's eyebrows rose in surprise and the tips of his ears turned red with modesty whilst Maxwell only grinned. Throughout his life, all he'd ever heard was how evil, harmful, and ugly magic and sorcery was. That it corrupted, and consumed hearts and souls, and didn't have a place in Uther's twisted idea of a perfect world. Neither he nor magic had ever been described like that, with splendor and purpose and necessity. He wanted so much for Arthur to understand that magic was as exquisite and pure and as simple as Maxwell pronounced, its only darkness is when those who wielded it chose to make it so. He wanted Arthur to know that not every sorcerer was the same.

Merlin's head was bobbing again, his gaze steady on the path in the distance. "That's extraordinary," he whispered, his eyes bright and with a smile of their own.

"You're not just a sorcerer, are you, Merlin? You're a Warlock. And there's so much life in you, you can't die, can you?"

Merlin stopped suddenly, the brightness fading into a terror-stricken horrified glaze, lips twisting as he bit into a grimace. His voice trembled. "Why would you say that? What do you know?"

"Calm, Merlin." Maxwell placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're a Child of the Earth, the source elemental that binds them all. You're as much a part of it as magic is, and it will not allow you to die. Just like the unicorns." He leveled his gaze. "Don't worry. I'll take it to my grave."

Dazed, all Merlin could manage was a whisper. "What…?" He looked so shocked, so forlorn. His world had twisted around him out of all recognition.

Maxwell sobered quickly. He was only a few years older than Merlin, yet much more versed in the art of magic than he had a right to be in regards to the Warlock. He'd been fortunate to study openly, to practice freely and in relative safety. He wondered what Merlin would have achieved had he the same opportunity. He shouldn't have just blurted it out, should have realized not everyone would have been so blessed in their education.

"I—I'm sorry, Merlin. It's just that I sense an ancient and benevolent power in you that binds to the Earth. Connecting you to its streams, plants and herbs, the very trees, they will protect you. With all your great wisdom, I just…I thought you knew."

"I—did not." Did the Great Dragon know of this? Why had he not told him? Why would he keep such a monumental secret from him? Merlin thought his burden was heavy as it were, but now, it seemed he had the weight of the eternity on his shoulders. Kilgharrah would answer for this, and for not warning him of the effect of Excalibur upon his king, upon himself. Why must he always make everything harder to bear?

The young knight sighed regretfully seeing some of his air of innocence visibly stripped away. "Again, I beg your forgiveness for imparting such knowledge to you, and I promise I will share what I know; what I've learned through books and travel and instruction. But now, our mission is dire."

It was possible that it wasn't only because he'd helped to create Excalibur, that maybe since being stuck in the bolder, it had somehow connected to the magic of the earth and matured. And since he was a Son of the Earth, he could now sense Maxwell because of it. Was this why he'd felt familiar?

Merlin had waited all his life for someone to understand magic the way he did. Gaius understood the science and the application of it, causes and effects, but not the fear and discipline and loneliness of living it. Lancelot had tried for a time and honestly, it had been wonderful having someone closer to his own age to share it with but he held even less knowledge than Gaius had. Neither did his mother and all three never saw what holding such a gift really meant. Not really.

Maxwell was like him, and the man had trusted him enough to take him into confidence, unafraid of betrayal even though he had not earned it. The tension in Merlin's shoulder relaxed under Maxwell's reassuring grip, the trembling turning into a slight shiver. "Yes," he said, his throat tight with all the attendant complications of what this now meant. That connection he'd felt in the tent, the wisps of happy magic touching his were from Maxwell. They were kin. And somehow Excalibur wanted him to know. To be prepared. "Of course. Thank you."

Maxwell nodded, now entirely confident in his decision to reveal his magic to a perfect stranger. They were kin, after all, more so than any other magic user Maxwell had ever come across. And under these circumstances, he relied heavily on instinct and intellect. He measured the man and did not find him wanting. He was a man with a kind and gentle heart, trusting and agreeable. Yet he also sensed the wizard within, a formidable opponent with the mettle of any battle-hardened soldier, powerful enough to kill him with thought alone if he wanted to protect his secret. And yet he could also sense that he wouldn't resort to so drastic an action unless it proved necessary. Such wisdom was rarely found in one so young. He also sadly believed the Warlock was unaware of his own potential, influence, and true worth. It really was no wonder why most of the knights and citizens at the camp and even the king was fond of the servant. But that fondness was never voiced, never acknowledged and it had left the man with no true idea of what he meant to them all.

Walking in comfortable silence while he absorbed this new information, their pace a casual stroll, Merlin whispered, "I wonder what Morgana's aura looks like." He thought he'd said that in his head, then grinned embarrassingly upon realizing he'd spoken it out loud.

Maxwell hummed thoughtfully. If Merlin was pure light and she pure darkness, he could almost imagine what he would see. "I'm not sure I want to know, but I guess we'll be finding out soon enough."

…..

After the countless times he'd slipped in and out of the castle without anyone the wiser, Merlin knew of all the forgotten and less secured passages within the Citadel, weaknesses in defense he used to his advantage time and again. On one hand, he'd wanted to warn Arthur about them. Any determined intruder could find a way in and do their dirty deeds, or a traitor to worm out without so much as a sideways glance from a guard. Agravaine was such an example.

He wondered why Leon had never reported Agravaine's clandestine departures, or arrivals for that matter. Unless his being a trusted uncle to the king gave him certain automatic rights, such as never being suspected of treachery no matter his late night activities. It had baffled him that nobles were never queried on such but the peasantry interrogated thoroughly. Especially considering peasants usually had more reason to be out and about after hours.

Even so nobles could come and go as they pleased, what business did a lord have to leave the Citadel at odd hours of the night and day? Perhaps the guards thought he was secretly meeting a lady outside the walls for some romantic encounter away from curious eyes and loose lips, and thought it best not to include his departures in their reports. Had they known his unknown paramour was Morgana who plotted with gods and goddesses against their very existence, so many evils could have been averted. If they had only accosted Agravaine for his comings and goings treating him to the same intense scrutiny as the servants, much may have come to light sooner.

Maybe they were threatened or bribed by the wayward lord. Merlin already knew of several accomplices within the walls of Camelot. He would be sure to root them out if they were still alive once the kingdom was set right under Arthur's control. Though he would not put it past Morgana to kill them all herself just to be rid of anyone who might seek to become a double agent and play them off one against the other. She had become altogether ruthless in these last years.

On the other hand, telling the king about the flaws in the castle's protection would severely deplete his available safe entry and exit routes and make it more difficult for _**his**_ comings and goings. These weak points helped to protect Arthur if—no, when he needed to, the way he needed to. Merlin decided then that after this was over, he'd research how to erect magical wards around the soft spots and other less secure areas that would be undetectable to the eye yet provide the necessary protection against unwanted guests and people like him if breached.

Maxwell disguised as a nondescript Southron and Merlin in the scarlet robes and pure white facial hair of Emrys, they parted down different passages upon reaching the upper levels leading into the heart of the castle. They both had different tactics and intentions for accomplishing their missions, Merlin to bind Morgana's magic and hopefully scare the living daylights out of her troops enough to leave them unsettled and on edge. Troops with hardly any sleep were next to useless after all. And Maxwell to seek out those lesser sorcerers, measure their powers and try to figure out ways of defeating them cleanly and quickly. They would return to the rusted gate on the outer curtain wall in one hour or less. Maxwell insisted Merlin leave without him if he did not return at the appointed time, pressing that the king needed him for the coming battle, the servant more valuable to their cause than the knight. Maxwell promised that he would hole himself up until the battle commenced tomorrow if he did not make it out. Merlin had reluctantly agreed with _**his**_ promise not to come looking for Maxwell no matter what happened.

….

Emrys finished his deed more swiftly than even he could have predicted, encountering hardly a soul near the royal chambers and securing the cursed poppet under Morgana's bed with little difficulty. But his attempt at slipping out as undetected as he entered was foiled spectacularly when none other than Morgana herself spotted him, ending with him giving the Southrons a merry chase through the castle with smoke and illusion aiding his every step. It was almost fun, even when the warning bell soon followed. But now dressed as a hooded Southron, he easily blended in with them and returned to the rusted gate, a small smile on his lips at the Southron's stupidity. It had only taken him a short time to change their odds and give them a better chance at retaking the castle without a one-sided magical offensive from Morgana. And if the caliber of soldiers set running after him was any indication, the army would have fewer problems than they thought. Deciding not to change back into his servant's clothes until he and Maxwell were safely back in the shelter of the forest, he melted into the shadows of an alcove, noiseless and patient, a discipline learned the hard way from countless long and boring council meetings with Arthur over the full span of six years servitude.

….

Maxwell lied, having no intentions of returning in one hours' time, his mission to eliminate the enemy sorcerers stuck firmly in his gut. And no sooner had he emerged from the dark southwest passages of the lower levels, and Merlin as Emrys hobbled off in a different direction down the dimly lit corridor, rather quickly for a man of 80 years, did Maxwell drop the pretense that he would only observe and collect information. He planned to kill them just as he said.

Confronting three sorcerers in which he knew nothing was as Merlin had definitely implied very foolish. They could have a range of talents that may far exceed his own above-average abilities. There was a better chance that he would not make it out of this alive, but it was a risk he was willing to take. As a knight, he was used to odds being so far removed from being ideal. Merlin's sense of caution was admirable but just the elimination of one sorcerer before the fighting started in earnest would ensure a much better survival rate for the strike force, and that in his mind was well worth the gamble.

Maxwell reasoned it was no different from any other dangerous mission he'd undertaken in the service of Sir Gregory, except that he was doing this completely alone with no one to watch his back. If Ector had been alive, he would have demanded to be a part of this had he known and there would be his cover. He would have insisted in that overly dramatic yet sarcastic way of his, that Maxwell had never been able to say no to. And he would have been full of irreverent whispered commentary and snide jokes whilst still being cognizant of the very mortal peril they were in. He shook those forlorn thoughts away. Now was not the time to dwell on what could have been.

The castle was unfamiliar, having never had cause to visit before, not even a call to battle. Its sheer size and number of places the sorcerers could be daunting in itself. The Clarwick knight moved casually among the trespassers, dressed in black and gray and a scarf covering his nose and mouth, striding along with a confidence he did not feel in order to blend in, his senses on high alert and caution dogging every step. A lot of Southrons were dressed like he was, others wore hooded capes or nothing at all to conceal their faces. It didn't matter what the sorcerers looked like though; he could spot them easily enough as long as they were accessible. But Camelot was so big, they could be anywhere and there was little of the night left in which to find them.

Taking a corner, a flux of Southrons moving with purpose in the slightly angled hallway momentarily startled him before he merged into the flow. He hadn't expected so many still awake this time of night and that may prove to be problematic if his targets were wandering around the great castle or in the presence of others. But he would deal with that sooner than he thought, the aura of a sorcerer no more than forty paces in front of him. He followed, watching a robed figure climb the winding stairs of the southeast tower, and two Southrons trailing behind him.

The greatest weapon in a sorcerer's arsenal was speech. Without it, he was just another man. The ability to evoke an incantation committed to memory still required the right pronunciation, intonation, inflection, and even a bit of faith to fuse properly with the natural magics of earth, fire, water, and air else the spell could go terribly wrong, or nothing would happen at all. Warlocks and witches, and in rare cases the sorcerers classed as high priests and priestesses of the Old Religion, were the only ones with sufficient power to cast a spell with only thought. Maxwell meant to silence their voices first.

He reached the bottom steps, ascending swiftly and just in time to see the two Southrons exit the stairs a few floors up while his target continued to climb, then exiting on the next level up, the highest level. He followed the sorcerer until he came to a door slightly open with a sign on the wall next to it that read "Court Physician." Smiling widely at his luck, and then twisting his face in mock pain, he entered cradling his left arm.

The soft clink of glass bottles stopped at the sound of his footfall at the threshold, and the sorcerer turned around in surprise. His aura, a dark shade of blue, had depth, but not substance, yet he was powerful enough if potions were in his arsenal. From the looks of the quarters, Maxwell could tell that he had settled in nicely, making use of the previous occupant's home and wares. If he had a guess, the sorcerer had the knowledge to use these medicinal items, applying his skills as not just a physician, but also an apothecary. He could heal with magic. Older than he had guessed and hunched, his head was nearly void of light brown hair though what was left was streaked liberally with gray. Dull brown eyes, small and conniving, glared at him, and his lips twisted into a sneer, obviously irritated at the interruption.

"What is it?" he snapped in a raspy voice, the usual patience and empathy of physicians clearly not in his repertoire. It was rather obvious this was not his typical profession. The man practically hissed at him.

Maxwell was not intimidated indicating his protectively held arm with a tilt of his head. "I think I broke my wrist," he said, his eyes slipping minutely to the intricate rune around the sorcerer's neck, elaborate patterns that he recognized but could not decipher from this distance. He grunted, suspecting it provided protection against killing spells. He hoped the apothecary thought it was a groan indicative of his pain. He would have to do this the knight's way, or something close to it, at least.

The sorcerer huffed with impatience and ill humor but summoned Maxwell forward with a querulous wave. "Let me have a look," he snarled. "I can't very well diagnose for meself without examinin' you."

Maxwell played his part well and held out his arm tentatively, grunting with faux pain as he did so, but knowing that anyone could tell there was no damage to his wrist just by looking at it, the bruising that accompanied broken bones simply not there. The old sorcerer took his forearm in a firm grip and pulled him closer with one hand, and none too gently so that Maxwell stuttered forward one step involuntarily.

The warning bell suddenly rang out and Maxwell pulled his arm from the other man's hold just as the apothecary pulled a dagger from under his robe with his free hand and tried to thrust it clumsily at the knight.

Maxwell easily blocked the small but no less deadly dagger aiming for his gut and shoved the sorcerer backward with a word and an invisible blast of air that sent him reeling, flipping him over a low wooden stool and landing hard on his face.

"Gesweorc, hine beclyppe!" He spoke calmly enough to incant the strangling spell while he rushed the fallen sorcerer, now struggling to breathe on the floor. Maxwell needed him alive long enough to ask a few questions on the whereabouts of his like-minded friends, and he knew just the spell to extract that information.

Kneeling beside him and turning him over, he barely heard the last breaths of life escape the apothecary, his tongue already blue and swollen, eyes bulged and glassy. Maxwell's own eyes widened. He had never seen the strangling spell cause such an effect, but upon closer observation saw a tiny scratch on the dead man's jawline, fine and small and still beading blood. Maxwell's eyes immediately sought the delivery mechanism, the dagger still held tightly in the dead man's grip.

Careful to retrieve it by the handle, he lifted the weapon and inspected the blade. A thin layer of darker gray sticky residue laced the edge marring the polished steel. "Poison." He padded down the corpse, discovering a bandolier of throwing knives and the sheath for the dagger. A piece of cloth doused with more grayish deposits lined the inside of it and soaked the killing edge with poison each time it was placed within. He carefully sheathed the dagger. These were assassin's tools and he found it poetic justice that the sorcerer had accidentally killed himself with his own weapon.

Unclasping the bandolier and the dagger's belt, Maxwell set them aside, then pulled the surprisingly heavy body into the small storage room at the top of a short flight of stairs. He wasn't too taken aback to find it doubled as sleeping quarters, and actually thought it fortuitous, though the person to whom they actually belonged possibly would not think so when the Citadel was restored to its rightful ruler and the body discovered.

He lifted the corpse onto the bed with a little difficulty and was just about to cover it with a thin and worn blanket when he glimpsed the runes glinting once again with the ancient symbols around the apothecary's neck. Times like these, he was thankful for his less than legal education, having studied runic philosophy and interpretation in great detail in Helva his first year there, and less so every year since. Cutting the leather strap and slipping it from around the sorcerer's neck, he secured it in the folds of the Southron jacket he wore. He pulled the blanket up to the dead man's neck and studied his work. As far as anyone could tell from a distance, a patient was fast asleep on the narrow bed.

Maxwell yawned, loud and obnoxiously, embarrassing himself even though he was alone. One thing for certain, he was exhausted and needed rest if he were to be effective when the battle commenced tomorrow. He noticed a cot in the main chamber and decided that was a good place to start. Descending the steps and closing the door behind him, he scooped up the discarded weapons. He removed his jacket, strapping on the bandolier and the dagger's belt, then concealed them as best he could underneath his jacket lest someone recognize them as belonging to the apothecary.

Scanning the rather large chamber, his eyes following the stairs leading to a winding walkway that leveled out before a large bookcase high in the rafters stuffed full of tomes of all sizes. He ascended the steps and squeezed into the extremely tight spot, grunting and squirming as softly as he could and endeavoring not to topple the more precariously piled volumes, before he was able to stretch out somewhat more comfortably and still remain hidden from immediate view should someone enter. Exhaling a few times, he felt the tension leave his shoulders then his whole body relaxed at the relative safety. The warning bell had stopped and he prayed that Merlin had not met a foul end. He somehow knew he had not, for the man was as wily as a fox.

It didn't take him long to fall into a light and dreamless sleep. With one ear cocked for trouble true, a man still had to take rest where and when he could get it in such trying times.

….

Merlin waited impatiently the last hour having lost all semblance of stillness and self-assurance before making the decision to return to their camp without Maxwell but with much indignation. It'd been over two long hours and there were few left before daylight broke. He would have to transport closer to the encampment than he'd prefer, but he still didn't think he'd get any rest. He should have known that whether it was the knight's sense of duty or he had considerable skills as a sorcerer, the man definitely had killing on his mind.


	15. Of Portents, Magic & Echoes of the Heart

**A/N: Hello, my friends. So, at last, some Arthur and Gwen time in this one. I hope you enjoy.**

 **Thanks again to KIMMIKY and Tuba Hayes for their superior beta help.**

 **I don't own Merlin.**

….…

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 15 Of Portents, Magic, and Echoes from the Heart

When Sir Maxwell failed to report in the early hours before dawn and knowing the man's character, Sir Kolby presumed to Lord Gregory and Fredrick that he was probably on some fool's errand. Perhaps even already in Camelot and pursuing the sorcerers on his own.

Maxwell was as stubborn as the rest of them and by the gods surely more clever, but he had his impulsive moments and was still only one mortal man, regardless of his talents. His presence could even jeopardize their silent approach and give the enemy a chance to prepare a counter-attack. Still, if anyone could improve their cause, it was Sir Maxwell, and Kolby had to trust that he knew what he was doing. So with much shame and self-loathing, the First Knight of Clarwick lied to his King, telling Arthur he'd sent Sir Maxwell on an urgent mission but that he would join the battle long before it was over.

Because of Maxwell's secret gifts, and the few others that he knew of, he'd learned the art of lying very well for the protection of them all. But for a knight of his caliber to deceive his sovereign so boldly to his face, he'd bare that dishonor for the rest of his shameful life. Breaking the highest code of conduct was egregious in his eyes, and if he ended up in the stocks, it would still be too mild a punishment for his offense. He would assign himself the most menial of tasks for the remainder of his days as his own small penance.

The king knew he was lying.

Arthur took in Kolby's words with just a nod of his head and eyes of cool admonishment, having seen the errant knight slip out with Merlin the evening before, though only Merlin had returned. From where he did not know. The king dismissed Kolby with steady calm, then pressed his lips with pure displeasure and a shake of his head as he turned and walked away.

He was angry, heated in fact, at the knight's audacity to lie him, his sovereign. He probably would have believed him before Excalibur, now hanging from his hip like a silent sentry, and if he had not seen Maxwell's unsanctioned departure for himself. Kolby was obviously protecting his subordinate with some kind of blind faith, and Arthur admired that even though he could not overlook the officer's decision for deception. It saddened him that he did not have their full trust.

Secrets. It seemed most everyone had them. Now, he had one too. He made his way to a small clearing, away from the clamor of camp dismantlement, then drew his secret from his belt and marveled at its quality.

…..

Gwen rose from a fitful sleep with the rest of the camp but readied for battle like the best of them with a renewed sense of purpose. She had not spoken to Arthur since he'd crushed her hopes the day before yesterday. Giving him distance was the easy part due to the size of the camp now, with his consorting with royalty and engaging with his knights in preparation for the battle. She'd spent her time, when not in council, in tearful reunions with friends from Camelot and her now hefty load of weapons to sharpen for the war.

But avoiding his so powerful pull was one of the hardest things she ever had to do. He'd promised her the world, had given it to her and then taken it back. He'd hurt her with words and deeds, and there was no going back to what they had. She would always love the other side of him, the sovereignty of his person, his love for his kingdom and compassion for others regardless of his reticence and heart of iron towards her.

Today could be the last time ever they'd see each other, war the thing that changed realities and many dreams, no prejudices on who it claimed. He'd told her his mind a few days ago, now it was time for him to hear hers. She would tell Arthur the truth of her heart before it was too late.

When morning broke in cool and crisp, rings of thin, flat clouds stretching in layered shades of rust across the eastern horizon, she watched him pack his own things in the flurry to strike the camp, and give orders to his men, negotiating the site like a beacon of shining hope. He even seemed to have had a civil conversation with Tristan, but then a not-so-pleasant one with Sir Kolby. Never the coward, she was certain her words to him would spur the same air of displeasure she'd read in his expression then. He may not want nor care to listen to her, or even to be in her presence.

She saw him alone at last practicing maneuvers with the sword she knew to be the one she'd given to Merlin many years ago, her father's ironworks unmistakable. It was the finest blade the blacksmith said he'd ever created and he had been very proud of it. Tom died never knowing that she had taken it, though she knew he would have understood the urgency of its need if he had. It was for the then-Prince Arthur, after all, to save his life. She'd never asked Merlin to explain its remarkable transformation when Uther used it instead to fight that Black Knight and then of its mysterious disappearance thereafter. But now she decided that one day soon she would. Right now, she mustered her courage to face the king and headed in his direction.

…..

The design and balance of the sword were exquisite, so remarkably precise, and the power Arthur felt when in his hands was indescribable. His grip was never as sure as he practiced his techniques, his footwork in perfect balance, his body in perfect harmony. They were flawless. He pulled it closer to his face to examine fine edges still sharp after freeing it from solid rock, the blade with nary a chip nor scratch on it.

"Take me up," Arthur whispered. That deed was done and in grand fashion. He flicked his wrist to translate the rune inscription on the other side for himself, no doubt thanks to Excalibur. "Cast me away."

What did it mean? When would that time come? Why must that time come? Of course, he knew that one day his sword would fall for good, his duty done, the state of things no longer his worry. But what would happen to Excalibur then? Who would be worthy enough to wield it after his death? Would it be thrown aside? Locked away as some precious thing? Lost somewhere over time?

"Arthur?"

Guinevere approached from behind, drawing his attention as he lowered the sword and turned to face her. It was the first time they had spoken since he'd unequivocally told her that he did not love her. What a lie that had been, his anger in the moment toward Tristan taken out on her with undue grievance, him cowardly hiding behind hurts bubbling just under the surface. He'd tracked her movements around the camp at every opportunity after that, aching to take her in his arms, recant his words, and beg for pardon, especially after what he'd learned from Fredrick.

"If anything was to happen to us," Gwen said. "I want you to know that I never stopped loving you." Though his decision to banish her had unintentionally led to her peril, she could only blame herself for putting him in that position in the first place. Still, her eyes of regret and words of conviction was a plea to see her heart. "Never once." She had planned to say more, but her courage shriveled and she tried to whisk past him, but Arthur caught her arm and held her in place. Her gaze dropped as did her shoulders and she braced for his rebuke.

"Guinevere." It was the sweetest sound in the world. Her name on his lips, the way he alone could say it made her shutter with bittersweet memories and the brokenness of their lives. The feel of his grip and his closeness at hand weakened her further and lowered her defenses even more.

He was gladdened she had come to him, her courage truer and greater than his own. But she would not look at him now, and he did not want that to be, could not suffer the blame any longer. For all the dishonorable things he'd done and said to her, she said she loved him still. And her willingness to fight beside him, her bravery alone made him feel undeserving, unworthy, much lower than the dirt he stood upon. She may even die for him, and that he could not bear.

"You're one of the best swordswomen I know, but I don't want you to fight tomorrow. This will be your first true battle, and upon my honor, it is far more unpredictable and wretched than practice."

Gwen flashed resentful eyes up at him and jutted out her chin. She'd lived through three wars since she could adeptly kill with a sword, but still she had not fought in them, her talents in the hospital far more critical than on a battlefield. The horrors wrought on human flesh, the pitiable wails of the severe and dying echoing in air thick and strangled with the musk of blood, grime, and despair that she could taste it. Of torn and broken flesh shredded beyond all pain and recognition. She'd seen battle as many had in Camelot, she was knee deep in its bloodshed, and fighting in her own way, her perspective was as horrific and as real as any soldier.

"I know that well enough," she snapped. Defiance sizzled in every word, she would face the odds like any other warrior. "Camelot means as much to me as it does to you even if it isn't my home anymore. You can't stop me."

 _Sire._ He heard the contempt even though she did not say it. His heart constricted at the chasm he'd dug deeper between them, the glare she now skewed sparking a memory of when she had looked at him with that same bitterness. That first time in Ealdor long ago over a little thing about eating all his food and appreciating the sacrifices made for them to have anything to eat at all. That was when he'd first stood up and took notice of the gritty handmaiden who'd slapped him with some common sense. She was a breath of fresh air for his otherwise stale and predictable life.

"I know," he replied with soft sincerity and a bit of humility at her steadfast courage. "I'm sorry. It was wrong of me to take that away from you. You have every right to defend our home just as any other citizen and it would be my honor to fight beside you."

With purpose, he called Camelot their home, referred to her as a citizen, beseeched her to recognize the inferences through her anger. He was still being a coward, though, not telling her how his body and soul hungered for her, how he'd sorely missed her that he could hardly bare the loneliness, the emptiness, that he needed her more than he needed to breathe, but he finally released his hold on her and settled for trying to later. "If we survive this, we'll talk. I promise."

 _My love._ She heard it in every word he spoke and a silent breath hitched in her throat. Arthur was different now, truer than ever before. She'd seen a change in him from the moment the sword entered his life, and if there was a chance that he could forgive her, she could move on with hers even if it meant a future without him. At least they would finally have the necessary, if not comfortable, discussion he'd avoided with coolers heads and cleanse some hurts between them.

And yet, could she forgive him for his transgressions?

Right now, she didn't care, and the wall she had imprisoned her heart crumbled into fine dust. "Well then, if we don't—" Gwen flung her arms around Arthur's neck on impulse and pressed her lips to his, her tongue begging for access against a smooth barrier of teeth. Opening his mouth and allowing her entrance, tongues danced in pleasurable delight. A kiss with passion, of sensual accord, and they melted in each other's arms. A sigh escaped them both unbound, and their bodies lit with ardor's fire.

She tasted sweeter than when last he'd kissed her in Ealdor if that were possible, surely the nectar of the gods of old. Fire roared but did not burn as he held her in a one-armed embrace. It was enough contact to feel their hearts merge in a white-hot flame that enveloped his very soul, all the purity, grace, and innocence of the woman he loved manifest in the vigor of a kiss. He pulled her closer commandingly and demanded more as succor. Excalibur vibrated in his other hand, its blade hung low at his side and a euphoric buzzing in his head. His very being seemed to explode to life, but he kept his hold firm. He would never let either of them go.

Her head swam in weightless pleasure at the desire of his kiss, his body pressed to hers, the strength of his arm around her waist. She starved for this and craved now more. She squeezed the threatening tears that stung her lids back into submission, determined to show no weakness. She poured her love and not despair into her ardent kiss. If this were to be their last embrace, there would be no doubt that this would show her loyal and amorous heart.

No strength to stand, she needed to breathe and Gwen swooned in his arms. Arthur broke their kiss but tightened his grip, his eyes hooded with desire as he looked into the gloss of hers. Their stuttering breaths and racing hearts electrified the air. Gwen was trembling and he coiled his arm around her even tighter. But then she steadied and found her footing and forced herself to withdraw, leaving Arthur in a heady fog of her true love's kiss.

Was it a promise of things to come? Or a reminder of what he'd lost? Collecting his thoughts as the world around him intruded again and he watched her go, a truth rang in his head as clearly as the love he had for her.

In two different places across the encampment, Isolde and Annis smiled.

…..

Years of training conditioned Sir Maxwell to wake an hour before dawn no matter the time of year. Almost all missions started at first light, and whether you had enough rest or not when duty called you rose, dressed, and prepared for the day with nary a complaint. Only sickness kept men from their posts, and that sometimes was not true either. The staunchest of them often placed their calling before their health and rebuked reward for their loyalty. A long yawn escaped his throat, and he lifted a hand to cover his mouth but his arm caught on something that impeded its movement.

"What-?" Wedged in the small cramped space between a railing and a towering, dusty bookcase, he'd forgotten where he'd holed up for the night. Maxwell whispered profanity. He'd made all sorts of noise that should have exposed him and turning his head with concerted effort, he glanced downward about.

"Quiet as the grave," he whispered before extricating himself with some complication and then descending the stone steps. He glanced at the storage/chamber doors where the apothecary laid dead beyond, but with no remorse to spend on deed, he headed for the outer door thinking only of his next targets and then closed it securely behind him.

A few Southron soldiers and closely guarded servants were already traversing the hallways and corridors with early morning duty and chores. The rest of the castle would be rising as well, so searching the barracks where most of the fighting force would be quartered was a prudent first start before they rose and dispersed into other areas of the great castle and towns below. The mess hall would be the next best bet, followed by the training grounds.

When the bell sounded warnings of Arthur's attack, which would be soon he wagered, the strategy of seeking them out would change. He would need to find a safe vantage and wait for them to come to him. That was if he didn't have any luck finding them in those other places first. The barracks were on the other side of the Citadel, so he quickened his stride for the brief stint across the near-empty courtyard and entered the northeast turret.

The stench of sweat and filth in the close quarters near overpowered his senses, the small openings along the walls serving more to light the place than offer enough air to circulate the musk of men who refused to bathe. Lord Gregory would not tolerate such uncleanness and he doubted that King Arthur would either. Yet, there was not a sorcerer on the three floors he'd searched, though he'd sensed and seen magical objects or charms on more than a few of the sleeping soldiers. With the officer's chambers the last two levels, he ascended the iron stairs, and a wisp of magic touched his conscience as he neared the uppermost level, the distinct pull of a sorcerer getting stronger with every step.

…..

This was not such a bad place to live, the Scorpion captain thought. His mistress, Morgana, came into a profitable agreement this time with the Warlord brute. Helios' people had a good place to settle and from which to raid. Plenty of slaves to plow the fields and keep the castle. Caskets of gold, jewels, and other valuables overflowed the treasury if what he heard was true. Camelot was indeed a worthy prize for both parties in which Morgana ruled them all.

Captain Sagar was an early riser, beginning his rounds nearly half an hour before he was scheduled. He clasped his gauntlets with speed and agility, needing neither servant nor woman to help him dress. He'd learned to take care of himself since he was ten years old, neglected by poor and simple-minded parents who feared his cruelty and then later his magic, and rightly so. Sagar had always been a bully, and sorcery only fueled his sinister nature to malicious levels. Not only did he find he had a talent for torture, but he also had a thirst for it.

Living in Essetir under King Gideon, Cenred and Lot's father, sorcery was acceptable, tolerated, and even sought after so most of his offenses against the weak went unpunished, mainly due to him never being convicted—caught once or twice, but he'd always managed to talk himself free of it with intellect, dramatic flair, and a little magic. And as long as he did not kill anyone, though there were a few close calls, he was safe to do with his magic as he pleased. Things were different before the Purge.

Consigned in the king's army to help stave his darker impulses, and once he understood how discipline worked and stopped retaliating against almost everyone, the sorcerers in the ranks taught him temperance and how to enhance his magic while the soldiers trained him in the skills of a warrior. It didn't take long after the brutal beginnings for him to start his ascension to higher positions, to rise above his natural-born station. He served his king and country for twenty-five years with the pride and the arrogance of a high-ranking, powerful soldier.

When Gideon was killed, Sagar held little fidelity and even less respect for the likes of the brothers who reigned after, and they, nor the few remaining sorcerers, were powerful enough to prevent his departure. He'd seen forty winters before he met the High Priestess in Catha, had been by her side from the beginning, and along with Brigitta, placed in leading positions in Helios' army. Serving under her was his greatest honor.

His servant was late with his repast again, so he didn't bother to turn around from the dresser when the door creaked opened. He picked up the helmet for a closer inspection of the polish that was poorly done. Edgar must truly relish the too harsh chastisements he received for inadequate performances of his duties as much as the captain did. The man was a mass of shriveling flesh around him and could hardly complete a task without making a blunder, but all the better. Sagar delighted in the tortuous reprimands, the only reason he kept him around.

"Am I finally to be graced with your presence?" the captain sneered, before a chance glimpse in the small mirror inlaid in the dresser's fretwork. Instead of his servant bringing his breakfast, a soldier wielding a sword in one hand and the other raised as if to cast a spell had taken a defensive position across the door's threshold and peering into his chamber. The post of the bed momentarily hid him from view.

His sword was near the head of his bed, on the other side and still in the scabbard, and he didn't even have his parrying dagger strapped on yet. Other than sorcery, the closest thing to a weapon was the helmet in his hands, and he needed one of them to channel his magic.

He could sense the heightened emotion, the attack forthcoming when their eyes locked, his warrior instincts sharper than his magic, but only just a little. So when the soldier cast a spell to stun, Sagar easily blocked it with a swipe of one hand while throwing his helm with the other, connecting soundly with the intruder's wrist, and sending his sword clattering to the floor. With magic and a muscled arm now outstretched, he lifted the man by his neck and with a violent push to the right, pinned him to the wall.

The breath knocked out of him and struggling to breathe, Sir Maxwell couldn't move from the grip of invisible hands around his wrists, ankles, and throat. He should not have hesitated, the man standing less than ten paces from him clearly with the advantage now.

"What do you think you're doing?" Sagar asked in a dangerously low growl, his bulk tall and steady, his eyes narrowed with suspicion as he scrutinized the other man. Surely, none of his men would attack their superior. "Who are you?" With his other hand, he used magic to remove the scarf from around Maxwell's nose and mouth.

"You're pretty," he said with a condescending snort. "But I don't know you, _and_ you're a sorcerer." The captain shifted one foot forward. "No doubt that scurvy king sent you here. I believe that makes him a hypocrite if I understand the history of the Pendragon. What? Did he think he could send in his traitorous worms to root us out without us fighting back?" He scoffed. "Then he is a bigger fool than you. How many are with you?"

Realizing the officer couldn't conceive a tactic to send only one sorcerer into a nest of scorpions as sound strategy, Maxwell strangled out "One-!" and smiled as arrogantly as the taut muscles in his face could.

"Liar," Sagar scoffed again. He sent another blast of air at Maxwell's kidney and chortled when the knight grunted in pain. "I'll find your friends soon enough and then skin them alive, but sadly you won't be here to see it. " _Hine fordo ge mid te._ "

He tried to stop the heart—Sagar liked that one, learning how to extend the curse for a longer, more satisfying experience for him, seeing their faces twist with shock and agony, watching them beg and claw for air, the color of life draining out of them—but the man still squirmed with effort to release himself. Sagar raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. A protection spell against that one.

"Very well, then. _Gesweorc, hine beclyppe!_ " The neck-breaker was too quick a death to appease his deviance, but he used it when situations suited the need. Sagar grunted with displeasure when his opponent continued breathing, his eyes glazed though, but safe somehow from two of the most common killing curses.

" _Strangaþ._ " The captain growled for his sword from across the room, catching it with practiced skill by the hilt when it found his hand, then flicked the scabbard off. "Let's see how your magic shields you against cold iron."

Edgar rushed in unawares carrying a tray of food and babbling an apology, but the captain mistook his servant as an enemy and flung him back out of the door. A hard impact with the corridor wall, he fell into a dead heap, the hearty meal strewed to ruin and the empty tray clattering to a still. A bright blood splatter where his head had hit now stained the coarse brick wall.

In the distraction, Maxwell dropped to the floor on all fours gasping for air, and regaining his wits he went straight for the kill. _"Gesweorc, hine beclyppe!_ " It had no effect on the man, though, tattooed runes flaring gold on Sagar's neck. Maxwell groaned. No doubt more tattoos covered all his vulnerable spots.

"You must think me a fool," Sagar sneered, advancing toward the fallen knight. "I've fought more battles than you've seen winters." Killing spells were not going to work on either of them. They would have to fight like the soldiers they were. And he was thankful he'd lifted those runes from the apothecary, else he'd be dead and his failure would jeopardize King Arthur's plans.

" _Strangaþ!_ " His fallen sword by the door flew into his hand just as the captain started a vertical swing down. Barely with time, Maxwell blocked it from slicing into his skull, then rolled onto his left and stood on wobbly legs, weapon raised.

" _Hleap—!_ " Sagar was upon him before he could finish the spell to throw him back. Maxwell parried with a quarter-cut and hurried telekinesis that brought a chamber pot squarely to the center of Sagar's back, knocking him off balance and spilling its contents on him and the floor.

The captain staggered forward from the impact into the elbow Maxwell had waiting, and then dropped with a twist to the floor. Sagar shook off the blur filling his vision and rolled out of range just as his helmet came crashing to the place where his head had been and the sharp end of a sword where his heart would have been. He pommel-struck Maxwell's wrist in the rise to his feet.

That blow forced Maxwell to lose his sword again and his arm went limp. Sagar repaid him with a vicious elbow to the throat that would prevent him from chanting any more spells or curses for a moment or two. No one but the High Priestess was powerful enough to cast mind enchantments, the captain believed.

There was enough power in the strike that Maxwell stumbled back and fell onto the bed. Sagar darted to the foot of the bed and brought a vertical slash down fast and hard, but missed Maxwell as he rolled away and dropped to a knee, the blade embedding in the footboard frame and stuck unyielding. The captain struggled to pull it free, growing furious by the second.

Maxwell used the moment to catch his breath as the enraged officer struggled to free his sword, his mind so clogged with fury that he could not think to consider using magic to remove it. And they were making a lot of ruckus, perhaps drawing attention; he could soon be surrounded in a barracks full of enemies.

The Clarwick knight must have blinked longer than he thought because he did not see that Sagar had moved in front of him before pummeling his face with knuckles of iron. He truly saw black and little twinkling stars as he crashed to the floor.

Sagar grabbed a fistful of hair and dragged the dazed sorcerer up just high enough, and with all his might, brought the man's face to meet his knee. Maxwell found his face once again kissing cold hard stone, the tinny taste of blood in his mouth. He was sure his nose was broken, and he may have swallowed a tooth.

"I've overcome better men than you, boy," Sagar jeered, going back to retrieve his sword, this time using magic and shattering the wood to splinters and the sword flying into his hand. "And for offenses far lesser than yours. What makes you think you can walk in here and defeat me? I'm going to take your ears to put on display for all to see. The rest of you I'll feed to the dogs. Raw and fresh."

His whole body quaked through the shock of the beating, in pain taking its time to subside, and he was still heaving for breath as the captain advanced on him, his grin arrogant, his blade glistening with deadly intentions. Maxwell rose as quickly as weak legs would allow and grasped the wrist of the captain to block his oncoming swing. The poisoned dagger he'd palmed while Sagar gloated sliced through his jugular and the man staggered backward grasping his neck, red life gushing through his fingers, his sword clanking on the stone.

"Trai—," he gurgled through blood-red teeth before he fell forward, dead before he hit the floor.

Maxwell sighed through his gasps for air. He knew he'd get no information from this one the moment they'd engaged in combat. But only one to go, though he could be anywhere.

Exiting the chambers as calmly as possible, the scarf now covering a face hiding the evidence of Sagar's assault, he stepped around the unfortunate servant and wasted breakfast and descended the iron steps to the bottom level.

Then the warning bell clang into the silence and Maxwell froze. The soldiers in the beds jumped into a frenzy with a purpose, and he, finally willing his feet to move in their hustle, blended in with them before leaving the barracks all together.

Southrons swarmed everywhere, and servants and slaves, too, blurring in a flurry of bodies, a din of voices and clatter, and the deafening clang of the bell. The warning meant only one thing: King Arthur had returned to take back his crown.

…..

He could see his first love just beyond the tree line and she beckoned him home.

Camelot called, tall and majestic, and he was vengeance reclaiming her. This was the second time in as many years he'd been driven out by Morgana, the humility to himself and of his people, betrayed by a once trusted and beloved lady of the court. The beat of his quickening heart pounded in his ears, pumping hot blood through veins bursting with energy, with a thirst. Predatory eyes traced the lines of the white stone while his mind raced through strategy, timing, and execution.

The rotation of the Southron guards offered opportunities for his small bands to slip through the tunnels under the southeast and northwest turrets and a lightly-guarded entrance along the western curtain wall. They surged forward, each man and woman adrenaline-spiked for their fight to retake their home and free their people from Morgana's reign of terror.

The warning bell didn't sound until long after they'd infiltrated the castle walls and had already split into groups with different objectives. Arthur and his party would take the throne room while Leon and Percival rescued the prisoners in the dungeons. Kolby and Fredrick, tasked with securing the armory, led the most men having the most difficult of the assignments.

Southrons spilled out of rooms and into corridors now, packing the spaces like a raging sea of black. The fighting was fierce, his strikes precise and deadly. Arthur cut through the flood of enemies like an avenging angel, fiery gold and omnipotent. He could see flashes of Gwen holding her own, executing forms he'd taught her. She fought well indeed, as he knew she could, eliminating opponents that made it past him.

Merlin, on the other hand, was clumsy, ungainly, though he still managed to stay alive, taking down the enemy with awkward displeasure. If they made it through this, Arthur decided it was time to teach Merlin how to use a sword properly.

Tristan and Isolde covered the rear with their familiar deadly finesse, a style that Arthur had come to admire about the smugglers. He would see if they would teach him and Guinevere their fighting techniques if they—all of them—survived this.

They fought all the way to the throne room, stopping just outside the large wooden doors to catch their breaths. Arthur assessed Excalibur, amazed that it had not stained with blood while Tristan and Isolde exchanged some lover's banter of a future to come, of them settling down to a life of routine and a modicum of danger.

"You know, this isn't half bad," remarked the king, knowing it was a blatant understatement.

"Thought you might like it," Merlin replied, playing along but glancing around warily, watching and waiting for another assault.

Arthur, pressing his side with the bruised ribs that suddenly reminded him they were still there, glanced quickly to Gwen whose sword was raised and expression determined, if not a little worried. She would be facing Helios again, and he understood her unease, if not entirely her history with him. He showed his support with just a look and a dip of his head to her.

"Ready?" he asked everyone, though he was still staring at her. Signaling that they were with wordless nods, with one great push through the wide oak doors, they burst into the room.

"For the love of Camelot," they all roared, Arthur the loudest, but then skidded to a halt at the sight before them.

Arthur would not have thought he was in a throne room under siege finding no soldiers to defend it, and with the manner in which Morgana sat draped casually across the high chair, her legs crossed and smile relaxed as she would if seated on any chair in the privacy of her own chambers. Her disrespect to its symbol barely lessened Helios' offense, with him stood behind the chair, a lazy arm on its crestwell and sword resting across his chest.

The warlord glared with obvious contempt as he sized up the king, then counted the warriors with him. Not much of a challenge from the looks of them. Arthur was the only real threat, but he belonged to Morgana. They all did. His gaze landed on Guinevere and his eyes turned even darker. Except for her. Morgana promised Gwen to him as recompense for what she did to him.

Very little of what she'd told him had been true. He knew she'd had importance when first he laid eyes on her, even with the sludge of pigs permeating from her clothes. Her countenance was too regal, her speech too formal, and now he knew why. A great house, indeed; the king's lover cast out.

How she'd masterfully played him, and then discovered his and Morgana's military plans against Camelot, a viper slithering in the guise of a beautiful woman. What a fool he had been to be so taken by her pretty face, desirable body, and pitiable lies. _She was no amateur in the art of deception_ , he simmered in thought. When this battle was won, and if she survived, he would not show the respect he had once bestowed. She would learn how a man like him dealt with wenches like her. He slid his disdainful glare from Gwen to Arthur when Morgana started to speak.

"Hello, dear brother," she greeted with no real affection, no warmth in her tone. "It's been far too long." Her impudence was disgraceful she knew, and she smiled wickedly in the knowledge that Uther would be just as appalled as the look on Arthur's face.

Rising with cool confidence, she sauntered toward the once-king. He would not take Camelot from her this time no matter how self-assured he may feel by his advancement thus far. They were by no means a match for her powers. Still, she stalled for time, for her sorcerers to arrive. The more, the bloodier.

"I apologize if you had a difficult reception. It's hard to know who to trust these days." That insult was intended for the three who had betrayed her in their own wretched ways; the other two people she did not recognize, but if they were allied with her half-brother, then they were her enemies, too.

Arthur and Gwen were once friends she truly cared about, and then later, Merlin when he'd stumbled into all their lives. She'd fought tooth and nail for them at one time or another; and they were who she'd turned to with her troubles, not the ladies of the court nor her own tutors and advisors. The trio had been her only source of trust and loyalty. Until her magic manifested and changed everything, changed her. Until Morgause. Those days laid forsaken now, wounds that left deep and ugly scars that she did not want to heal, nor to forget. Her hatred of them only fueled her thirst for power and revenge.

Arthur approached Morgana slowly, Excalibur raised on full display, its gold and silver blade pointed down yet glistening in the electric ambiance. This was the first time he'd seen her save the glimpse of her when the Southrons had overrun the courtyard a week ago. He'd hardly noticed her then, his vision tunneled on his traitorous uncle Agravaine marching arrogantly beside her and Helios in their bid to commit high treason.

She was pale and thin, her hair something akin to a wild thing, tangled and matted. She wore a dark dress, tattered and worn as if it were her only one, a far cry from the soft, colorful silks and satins she'd graced these halls with so long ago. Even the spark in her eyes had changed. They once shone brightly with pride and honor, beauty and grace; a true lady borne to tame the hearts of men. Now they cut like shards of glass, bending them with bloodthirsty power and mad, unpredictable retribution. He hardly recognized his half-sister.

Her eyes glossed over when she saw the sword, but whatever fleeting thoughts had momentarily mesmerized her vanished when he sheathed it through his belt without breaking his gaze from her.

To Morgana, it was just another pretty new toy for Arthur, as Gwen had once been, though Arthur seemed to have kept her longer than any new plaything then she would have expected. And from the looks of things with Gwen still at his side, her efforts to break them apart were again futile, all for naught, saved by some power higher than her own. She hardly recognized that side of him, the side that bared his deep desire for her former handmaid. He'd found his true love and Morgana was jealous of that too, of them. She would have her vengeance on Gwen this day and kill her alongside her lover-king. She had lied to Helios to placate him and to assure his loyalty during the battle, never once intending to let Guinevere live the day out if their paths crossed.

"What happened to you, Morgana?" The calm in Arthur's voice stole her attention back to him. "I thought we were friends."

She looked fondly at her half-brother and for a moment she reflected. "As did I," she said softly. There was a time before when she believed he was a better man than their father ever was, fighting with a common cause to right some wrong.

After the initial shock of being in a strange place when she'd first arrived in Camelot, and with no family left to love her, Arthur, despite his outward bullish ways and false elitist air, was the first of them to make an effort through the disruption in both their lives by offering to practice swords with her. In between those mostly-pleasurable matches, they sparred in other ways, fighting like siblings and always trying to outwit the other. And then there were the times when he'd fiercely defend her honor from idle gossipers, overzealous suitors, or even the king. She had come to respect Arthur far longer than he had probably known.

But she'd made a terrible mistake, now seeing clearly the flaws in his character, the cracks in his armor. Especially after Morgause had taught her a thing or two the year she went missing. Arthur continued to persecute her kind after he'd become king, and though they were fewer, pyres still burned and axes fell without mercy. Under the façade he'd fooled her with, he was just like Uther, a scourge on this land she truly believed she was destined to cleanse. She hated her half-brother.

The affection in her eyes disappeared like stars winking out in the first morning light. "But alas we were both wrong."

Those few words were spat with such hatred from someone once so loved that Arthur couldn't stop the sting of water in his eyes. Their father had deceived them all by hiding the truth of her conception in an adulterous affair with the wife of his best friend. Uther's best knight. Arthur was debilitated to learn of her illegitimacy nearly two years ago when she'd committed high treason the first time, held their father under duress and made him kneel before her as she was crowned Queen of Camelot.

Though Uther had doted on her and granted her more privileges than his own natural son, Morgana was not pleased that the king had not recognized her, and she crushed his spirit to the point of madness. To admit that secret would have put a stain on their father's virtue, though, not to mention Lady Vivienne's, and disgrace their two great houses.

Even so, she held no claim to the throne she must have known. She was a bastard regardless of being first born. It was as if some disease had infected her rationale, lies that fed her ego and demented her character into believing she truly had a right to it. That crown belonged to Guinevere and then their children if there were still a future for them. Seizing Camelot by force and killing them both was Morgana's only way of keeping it, and he would die a thousand deaths to stop her before she caused any more harm to another Pendragon. He pitied his half-sister.

"You can't blame me for our father's sins," Arthur said calmly.

"It's a little late for that." She scoffed. "You've made it perfectly clear how you feel about me and my kind. You're not as different from Uther as you'd like to think."

"Nor are you." Arthur hurled the insult with cool accusation and her eyes blazed with vindictive hate. She'd ruled with an iron fist, her sovereign absolute, and anyone who stood in her way shown no mercy. She had twice proven the cruelty of her power and apathy toward her people and the realm. Instead of nurturing the very thing she craved, she crushed it under foot without regard. She had no concept of ruling a kingdom.

"I'm going to enjoy killing you, Arthur Pendragon." The curl of her lips and the glower in her eyes could not hide her repulsion. She was nothing like Uther and she would show them all just how different she really was when she ended their precious lives. She backed away slowly. "Not even Emrys can save you now."

 _Emrys?_ Arthur drew Excalibur with a fierce tug, the sword zinging in his ears and Dragoon suddenly flashing through his mind for some unknown reason. _Emrys and Dragoon, two sorcerers?_ Why would Morgana believe them to be in alliance with him? Another succession of flashes and somehow he knew that the two sorcerers were one in the same. Emrys was Dragoon, and Dragoon had once saved Gwen. Who was this man? Why did Morgana fear him? Did she have enemies not aligned with her agenda, more powerful than she?

 _Hold fast, Arthur_ , the king breathed in calm. _Stay focused. Answers will be given in time._

"Your blades cannot stop me," Morgana ridiculed with a smirk that turned into a hostile glare when she saw them steady for what she knew they could not withstand. She would stun them with enough force to propel them through the air and hopefully crush bones if they hit the hard stone just right. Then all at once, she would break their necks for good measure.

" _Hleap on bæc_."

Nothing happened. The clamor of war beyond the threshold of the great doors filled the silence in the throne room as they waited in defensive postures. Morgana glanced sideways at Helios, mystified.

There was no magic to be dealt from the High Priestess this day, the binding spell having sapped at her abilities through the night, her magic manifesting black slime that oozed out of the poppet Emrys had placed under her bed. Merlin's immense talents allowed him to hear ethereal whispers of the cursed effigy as it did its deed to bind her magic; he could feel it, and he quivered at the greatness of hers that stung the air.

As untamed and wild as a raging fire, he was unable to control the cold shiver that coursed his spine. He could not see her aura, but now he thought he could imagine it as Maxwell would. Dark and thick from constant usage, ugly and untouchable as the poppet was supposed to be. But she was as mortal now as the rest of them. Well, maybe not himself, and that thought made Merlin quake all the more, recalling the revelations Maxwell brought to light. He was more powerful than the High Priestess could ever imagine or ever find out.

Tristan thought Arthur should just charge her, take her by surprise and be done with it. That fancy new sword of his surely could vanquish the mad priestess now. He looked at Isolde. She was thinking the same thing by the anticipatory glint in her eyes and the sway of her form.

Morgana's stun spell normally had enough force to blast them off their feet and smash them into whatever object she chose to slam them against, killing them on impact if she wanted. She raised her hand then spoke with much more strength though much less confidence than before, a nervous creak in her voice.

" _Hleap on bæc_." Again, nothing. She looked at her hand as if it had betrayed her, confusion clouding her dazed blue eyes.

Ethereal whispers rose again, louder with his magical hearing, and it sounded like there were more voices that time. Merlin shuddered with sheer confidence that no one else would understand. The high priestess was rendered inert, if only temporarily.

Arthur glanced between her extended hand and his sister. "Not so powerful now, my lady." He struck with words that held more sadness than condemnation. _Did Emrys have something to do with this? Did he somehow save them again after all? What reason had a sorcerer to fight for him rather than Morgana?_ What had he ever done worthy enough for their kind to prove such loyalty? It made little sense.

He agonized for Morgana though, who she had been; and had mourned for her the year she'd disappeared, searching tirelessly for her to near exhaustion, though no one but Gwen and Merlin knew that, seeing through the bluster portrayed to his father and others and forcing him to take rest the times he could barely stand. He had loved her, but she'd changed after that ordeal, and now, after all the hurt and pain she caused, he refused to shed another tear for her. He was no longer her defender.

Helios grabbed her arm and pulled her behind him as she shuttered with fear. That monster was now her protector and that suited him just fine.

Morgana's eyes glazed needing no magic to glimpse the future king. Arthur, shining in glory and Gwen still beside him wearing the jeweled crown she had twice worn. She had lost to them again, and only Emrys could have made this possible. He'd stolen her powers. Last night that old fool had somehow bound her magic so tightly that she couldn't even tickle her enemies, let alone propel them with a gust of air. It was inconceivable, and she felt violated, exposed, and vulnerable. The curse could last for days, and swords could hurt her now. In a panic, her sorcerers be damned, Morgana fled through the servant's entrance at the back, deserting the warlord to fend on his own.

"After her!" Arthur shouted, knowing that when Merlin and Gwen gave chase that they could subdue Morgana now with her powerless. Southrons, drawn in by his commanding voice, flooded the throne room from the wide open doors and the two smugglers immediately turned to defend his back.

Arthur trained his eyes on Helios. This man terrorized his kingdom, killed his citizens, enslaved his love and God knew what else. He clutched his side, then cursed himself for possibly exposing a weakness. He'd exasperated his ribs like none other this last week from the exertion he put upon his body, to not show weakness and become a hindrance. It was a foolish thing to do. It was pride, and now a disadvantage. Had it not been for the trickle of healing power seeping slowly into him from Excalibur, he would not be on his feet right now nor could he overcome so powerful looking an adversary.

But this one it was personal. He'd fight to his last breath to avenge Gwen and his kingdom. With a throaty cry and a burst of adrenaline, he rushed the warlord, their swords clanging on violent contact.


	16. Balance - Counterbalance

**A/N: Hello, my friends. Well, we're almost there!** **This one is for Mersan123 who wanted a twist (or two).** **I hope you enjoy! Oh, IDOM.**

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 16 Balance - Counterbalance

He was in the dragon's nest.

In Camelot a week now and that was all Dodd could think of, the emblems of the royal family, hints following him around the castle and constantly reminding him that this was not his home. Dragons were everywhere, and he did not know why they haunted him so. Instead of noticing the warm and beautiful body draped over him, the one grey eye not covered with her wild hair, focused on a mounted shield when he opened them, a golden dragon emblazoned on the black of it.

There was something about the place that troubled him, especially those long forsaken torture chambers and frightful devices rusted with blood in the bowels of the dungeons; and the vast cave system even deeper beneath the castle, spectacular catacombs now forgotten, but once rumored to have imprisoned a dragon. The evidence he unexpectedly found of something large having been kept there had dispelled those whispers. He wondered if the young king had known of them, of those dark and terrifying places compared to the world above them.

Dodd had traveled to Camelot many times whilst growing up, being a son of a wealthy merchant from Burwell, a small town in Landshire and located near the delta of two rivers ripe for trade and commerce. His family's vineyard was the best in the kingdom, his magic had made sure of that.

Awed by the king's city as a boy, he'd always loved the excitement there. Dodd marveled at the spark that filled its people and towns, a city filled with light and laughter and its own kind of magic, a pride and spirit so unlike Burwell. Now it lay dead and in ruin, the vibrancy of color and life now shadowed in fear and despair and no sign that Morgana wanted to return it to its former lively ambiance. He'd played his part in its downfall, too, and he should have been proud of that.

He'd been with Morgana from the beginning, enlisting with her in Catha as an advisor, his professional skills with industry appreciated more by her than his own family as it turned out. He was young, but he knew business. It was he who'd counseled her through negotiations with Helios, helping with terms that were equitable for both parties. But Helios had pushed him aside once they'd taken the castle, his influence with Morgana dismissed with abrasive contempt by the brute, keeping the High Priestess near isolated as if she were some fragile thing.

Dodd had not pledged his loyalty to the warlord, nor did he trust him. A word or two with Captain Sagar and they could see to the removal of the barbarian and then force his men to swear fealty to his mistress. Sagar would command his army with might and magic, and he would once again have Morgana's ear. It would not be the first time he'd let vengeance smother the best of him, and he was sure it would not be the last.

The warning bell sounded just as he opened his eyes again, having dozed off in the euphoria of seeking revenge, and Dodd took a sharp intake of breath, the faint stomp of boots and muffled voices coming full into his senses. He quickly rose, but nearly fell out of the bed being tangled in the sheets and feet of the Southron maiden now wide awake next to him and clutching for control of the linen before rising herself and swiftly wrapping in the flowing white.

"Damn it, woman!" he scolded, but not harshly. "You're going to be the death of me!" The dark-haired beauty smiled apologetically, scooped clothes from the floor, and then hurried to his side to plant a wet kiss before scurrying out of the room.

Dodd blew breath through his lips at the sensuality of such a fleeting kiss and then dressed quickly while scanning for his boots. Usually preferring long robes rather than chainmail or leather, he thought it prudent to add one of them as a layer of protection today if the warning bell meant anything. He knew that it did: the dragon was returning to nest.

King Arthur would have a horde of undisciplined Southrons to contend with, but Dodd held little faith in their abilities to hold the Citadel regardless of the Warlord's leadership. He and the other sorcerers, including his mistress Morgana, had taken this castle. Helios and his brutes were expendable distractions whilst they put chokeholds on the most heavily armed positions in the Citadel and strangled the enemy. Arthur had been lucky to escape at all.

Surely by now, the king must have had reports that included the enlistment of sorcerers by Morgana. He would be prepared for them, but Dodd wasn't sure how. His thoughts wandered to the vaults he'd inspected the second day he was here, of the abundant magical artifacts, some of them that could resist and restrain a sorcerer. If Arthur got his hands on similar devices from his allies, he could launch an effective counter-attack against them and hold them in those secret torture chambers indefinitely. Dodd forced himself to move, to finish dressing. Finding the High Priestess to ensure that did not happen was his foremost priority. After a few steps, he stopped and looked down, his feet cold on the stone floor even with his socks on. He still had not found his boots.

Rapid knocks at the door and his servant rushed in and proceeded to help the silver-haired sorcerer dress, though all Dodd needed was his robe and his boots by that time. The robe he still chose to wear with gambeson and chain obscuring his soft silk shirt underneath—at least that was something. His servant lifted a boot that he'd grabbed from under the bed, but one was all he could find.

"Dammit, woman!" Dodd shouted with an exaggerated huff as he stalked to the door and swung it open with equal emphasis. "Where's my boot?!"

…..

It was good to be home, only Fredrick wished he hadn't had to fight his way back into it. So much had changed in the few months he'd been gone, the destruction, the despair, so unlike the thriving and happy home he'd left near three months ago. But he knew this place intimately, the castle and its grounds, having lived here his entire life and protected these halls on countless occasions. This wasn't the first time he'd had to fight his way through them, but God, he wished it would be the last.

This hour of morning the operational factories and stores would be mostly empty of officials and workers, so collateral damage would not be much of a concerning factor. These were only a few branches that needed to be sustained, and to administer the entire operation would have required the use of Camelot denizens. Nobles and commoners had been forced into labor. Control the arsenal and control the castle, and better their odds in the battle. Commanding the most troops to attack Morgana's heavily fortified asset was their best chance of obtaining that overall objective.

With the warning of the bell, however, Southrons soldiers and blood-hungry berserkers were on guard and ready to defend the vital resources when they arrived. Fredrick shoved past a Southron who met the waiting sword of Sir Kolby before he plunged his own weapon into a berserker.

It took all of his training to remain dogged on the battle and not worry about Lady Guinevere. She had proven her mettle in combat against Helios' scouts, though on a much smaller scale compared to what they were engaged in now. These cutthroats had no honor, and her status and gender would not protect her from their brutality. She had escaped their wretchedness just over a week ago and to be immersed in more violence so soon could have detrimental effects on the feeble-minded. But Gwen was far from weak, and he was confident she could hold her own especially with the sword of the king at her side. What help the servant, Merlin, could provide was of little assurance, but the man was always in the thick of it and most every time managed to come out unscathed. He reminded him of Maxwell.

Another berserker swung a mace at his head, but the soldier ducked and with a fast step forward, lunged his sword between the man's ribs, and then immediately cut down another. Kolby and a few other knights surged ahead, chopping and hacking as bodies of both forces began to litter his hallways with the stench of blood, the carnage an inevitable outcome of cold-bloodied warfare.

There were a lot of them though and they weren't letting up. Fredrick figured they'd be there a while as he sliced through another opponent. He could only hope that the others met less resistance, if only for Gwen's sake.

…..

Leon practically dragged Gwaine alongside him as they fought their way out of the dungeons carrying the weak and wounded, servants and nobles, knights and guards, until they reached the physician's chambers, surprisingly well ordered considering the state that the rest of the castle was turning out to be.

Supported between Percival and Elyan, Gaius lost what little strength he had left and collapsed his full weight upon them. Elyan, in his own weakened state, nearly lost his grip. Pride and a deep-seeded need to prove his character to Percival strengthening him a bit to hold fast. Leon pulled a cot forward while Gwaine hobbled toward Merlin's room. The servant's bed was calling his name and the chamber would provide a bit more privacy than the already full outer one.

"Get him there," Leon said, removing the blanket just as Gaius was laid out and then covering him with it. "Ranulf, find the king. It's time for our allies to move in. He should be in the throne room by now. Peter, bring some water, and then get food. Sir Vidor, take some men and go with him. George, start field medicine on the injured. Set up an infirmary wherever you can. Gaius will need his quarters to recover, I'm sure."

Gaius moaned weakly and Percival gently adjusted the blanket on the old physician. "Elyan," he said, looking at him to gauge his reaction. "Gwen's back. She's fighting in the battle as we speak." He could barely restrain a sneer of satisfaction when the man's mouth tried to form words that wouldn't come and the uncertainty that flashed in his weary eyes.

Elyan did not know whether to feel great joy or sheer terror. His big sister was alive and well, at least for now. The Southrons would kill her without thought, and if she should fall he'd never have the chance to say how sorry he was, admit how badly he behaved. He would never be able to ask for forgiveness.

Gwen was a survivor of the highest order, he reasoned. She'd made it this far without him and in his heart, he knew they would see each other again. Then dread set in suddenly. He would have to face her, and that was far more terrifying than facing the unmerciful Dorocha. His big sister would show him no mercy either and there was no way to extinguish her wrath. Still, he'd shown enough one-sided devotion. He had utmost loyalty to his sovereign, but he loved and needed his sister more he'd ever realized. Percival had a little to do with that realization.

"I must find her," he said, then slumped against a worktable that shuttered with the clink of glass from his weight, Elyan now drained of might and verve. "I—I need to…"

"Right now, you must find rest and nourishment," Leon said, guiding him to the workbench. The man was too exhausted to see that the bench was right at his knees. All he had to do was sit.

"Yes," Percival said, a wicked grin and devilish spark in his eyes. "You'll be needing all your strength for what lies ahead." It was as spiteful as the caliber of knight the giant could convey. His faith reined him in from saying other things. He leaned in closer, his face rigid and now familiar of late. "Just because she's back doesn't mean things have changed between us. If she forgives you, then maybe I'll think about it, too. Don't get your hopes up, though. I think I know your sister better than you do." What few grudges he held had a tendency to stick in his craw and heaven help the man who was against him. They would see a side few had ever seen outside of battle. He'd only shown a small measure of his contempt to Elyan, his own beliefs on forgiveness and turning the other cheek keeping him at bay and the fact that Elyan had become his closest friend since they were knighted. Still, he was a simple follower of the Way, born to live by the Way, but he was not a saint.

The brother should not have abandoned his sister. Percival was certain Arthur would have allowed Elyan to ride out and protect Gwen, if only to get her settled somewhere safe. Instead, he'd forsaken her in the most dishonorable of ways, hiding behind his knightly shield of so-called loyalty and duty. Percival had lost his entire family in Morgana's last war; his world had revolved around them. When Cenred's immortal army had marched through and decimated his village nearly two years ago, he'd only survived because of Lancelot's timely intervention. What he wouldn't do to have at least one of his family members alive now.

"Here," Gwaine called, breaking through the uncomfortable tension of the estranged friends. Percival and the First Knight entered the storage room serving as Merlin's chamber. Elyan found enough strength to rise, climb the few steps and leaned in through the door, grateful for the support. "Seems I wasn't the only one with this idea." Gwaine pulled the blanket off a body in the peak stages of rigor, stiff and pale. "This bed isn't doing him any good, though. He's dead." The apothecary's face was frozen in a glare that stared at nothing, though his expression was one of shock.

"Poisoned," Percival observed. "There. That nick on his chin." The fine scratch had festered and black veins spread from it.

"A foul way for any man to die," Leon whispered with a disgust.

"Isn't that the apothecary?" Elyan asked. "The sorcerer we saw healing some of the Southron guards?"

"A sorcerer," Leon repeated thoughtfully, recalling the war councils with Arthur and the lords of Camelot, the mention of several magic users in league with Morgana. Killed hours ago, this one was purposefully concealed to seem innocuous if anyone simply looked in. It was a turn of good fortune for them, and Leon was wise enough to know that they had an ally in the castle. He wondered if Arthur had sanctioned such a bold and dangerous move. If that was so, then why had he not been informed?

"No matter," Gwaine said. "Give me a hand, will you? I need this bed more than he does." Leon and Percival stepped forward immediately and lifted the heavy body, hauling it into the outer room.

Gwaine looked disquietly at the bed, the thought of lying on the same surface where the dead had lain not too appealing. He'd slept in many dubious places, but he wasn't ready to follow the departed like this. He grunted, tossed the pillow and blanket, and then flipped the thin mattress over.

Lying upon it, he stretched out slowly, gingerly flexing taut muscles that ached in every spot. He had broken ribs, broken nose, broken fingers, maybe even concussed given his enormous headaches, and those were just the injuries he could feel, not to mention the countless cuts and bruises he'd sustained during his combat for food. And he was starving. The moldy bread was enough to stave the hunger, but it unsettled even his iron stomach after a time, and he nearly threw it up as quickly as he'd eaten it those last few days. Merlin's door creaked open and George hobbled in carrying a wounded guard and looking apologetic as he laid the half-conscious man on the floor next to the bed.

"George," Gwaine grunted out the servant's name, but that was all he had the strength to do. He closed his eyes as he exhaled a cleansing breath.

"Apologies, Sir Gwaine," George said, removing the helm and as much chainmail as he could from the guard. "We need the space for a time. Two more men can fit in here, I think. Maybe three." Gwaine was too exhausted to argue with the man, grunting at the combination of relative comfort and bodily pain before falling into the safe embrace of slumber.

Leon continued with direction. "Hanna, please start a fire and assist George until we can find Merlin or Gwen to take over," he ordered a maidservant, who immediately went to work aided by another. "Percival, position guards to protect the injured until the palace is secure. The rest of you, sweep the Citadel, rout out the bastards every one of them." And to no one in particular, knowing full well that he wasn't the only anxious one amongst them, "I must search for my wife and the girls. I pray they were able to get out of the castle."

"Leon, they weren't," Elyan said, his words halting the knight to a frightful silence. "At-at least not at first. Any noble who was against sorcery in the past was imprisoned or forced into labor. We heard those with no significant importance were expelled from the castle and Upper Town to fend for themselves outside the city walls, in the Lower Town."

Leon was a different man around Mylla when things did not go well between them, like the last time when he'd seen her, a week ago today, he thought. They'd argued once again over his negligence of her and the twins, about him preferring duty to king and country rather than the responsibility to family. He'd stalked out of their chambers having heard that story before, a trail of harsh words following in his wake. He regretted that now. If Morgana knew who she was, had his wife become a suitable target against so spiteful a queen? Mylla was capable of fending with words, but she was a spoiled socialite used to others taking care of her. She would not fare well on her own if she were cast out into the Lower Town. And his children? Where were his five-year-old girls? Were their nursemaids still with them?

"There's a good chance they were able to find shelter, then," Leon finally managed to say. "Perhaps, a deserted home…?"

"Their conditions were harsh, my lord." George descended the steps. He was one of the servants held under strict guard to help maintain the operation of the castle. "We were all under constant threat and watch. When the crops were burned, there was little food to be found for them. Few merchants sold what they had but were quickly out of the things that could sustain so many. Some of us smuggled out as much as we could from the kitchens and the stores, but it was precious little, surely not enough. The people are beginning to starve."

"Your return brings glad tidings to us all, Sir Leon," a wounded knight said from his perched position in the doorway. "God save the king."

"God save the king," Percival repeated softly, feeling an urgent need to say it, too. The people had suffered greatly in so short a time, but he had every confidence that Arthur would defeat his sister to end this nightmare once and for all.

Leon's lips worked to find the words. There was a system to follow after a battle, assessments, censuses, protocols and duty that meant it could be hours before he could find out anything concerning his family. He was willing to forsake it all for them now. "Mylla. My two daughters."

Percival grasped his shoulder with his giant hand and jostled him a little. "We'll find them, Leon. I swear on my life."

…..

He cradled his side: a weakness. His heart was aggrieved for that traitorous witch: another soft spot. Helios would use these flaws against the once king, and one that he would not see coming. He had height and bulk on Arthur, and an injured man was no match for his power and prowess. He beckoned Pendragon forward with a twist of his head, his annoyance at Arthur's delay to engage clearly on his face.

He'd captured his love and did God-knows-what to Guinevere. Helios was no more than a brute with a little power, a savage who'd terrorized his lands and fed off the innocent. His aggression was a shortcoming, along with his ego: two weaknesses Arthur would use to his advantage.

As Southrons swarmed through the open doors, the king charged the warlord with a throaty battle cry. Tristan and Isolde engaged the enemies with their usual dramatic flair, their deadly dance of elegance and skill killing two soldiers instantly and simultaneously.

Even with his injury they seemed evenly matched, the king's ability to counter his powerful sequences of beats infuriating the warlord. Arthur was an exceptional fighter, Helios had to admit, astutely aware that he'd underestimated his opponent. Still, the man could not hold for much longer, his strength must surely soon deplete.

Their swords crossed, the steel screeching to a halt, their faces now inches apart, and Helios sneered wickedly. "She was delicious, Arthur," he taunted with a suggestive lick of his lips. "And she enjoyed every minute in my bed, everything I did to her. She was the sweetest thing I've ever tasted."

The thought of this vile boar touching his Guinevere in dishonorable ways made the blood vessels in his forehead and neck protrude in that he was sure they would explode as violently as his temper. He had compared the taste of her sweet kiss to something similar just this day, and he roiled at the vulgarity of the warlord, relishing the loving of her beyond precious and honorable boundaries. It disgusted him. It infuriated him.

Some kind of calm flowed through him suddenly and her kiss he remembered in full. The love and purity that sprang from Guinevere had touched his soul and now it cooled his fire. One of the first rules of combat he'd learned under the insufferable Captain Lucan was never to fight with anger in the heart or the head. It was a weakness too easily exploited. He should have remembered that before he'd fought Lancelot all those months ago, too.

"Liar," Arthur sneered back, the truth of his one word revealing themselves in the Warlord's ugly frown. He pushed Helios back with a fierce shove and charged him again.

Helios deflected Arthur's advance that opened the king to the swift elbow to his jaw. Arthur twisted in a half turn and dropped to the floor. Although dazed, he instinctively rolled away, but could not regain his footing. Bringing Excalibur up in time to block a sloppy downward thrust from Helios, the force of the strikes, blade against blade, was enough to sheer Helios' sword in two.

Both men were stunned, but Arthur recovered first, and with a roar, slashed Excalibur across the warlord's stomach with enough strength to cut deep through the hard leather vest. The flesh underneath opened up as well, and his innards gushed out with a sickening squish. Arthur scooted back against the high chair, shocked, but no more than the look of dead surprise on Helios' face. One wild swing before he fell, Helios' broken sword slashed across Isolde's back as she finished off her kill too close behind him.

Her cry of pain spun Tristan around just as he pulled his sword out of an attacker, the glee on his face fading into panic. He ran to his woman, but Arthur caught her before she fell, her moans of agony as his chainmail touched the raw, open flesh sending chills through him. He gently passed her to Tristan who lifted her and carried her only a few paces before sliding down against a column in an embrace of love and blood.

Her wound was wide, deep, and the spine could be seen. Arthur had seen men injured like that before. If she didn't die from the wound, blood loss, or infection, the crippling effects on the nerves were enough to make any warrior pray for death. He tore his eyes away from them and trotted to the wide doors as quickly as his own injuries would allow, not only in search of help but to send word to the other kingdoms to begin their sweep of the surrounding forests for enemies in flight.

There would be no escape for them. "Execute any who resisted," was his decree for their crimes against the crown, against his citizens. He'd spare their women and children, any slave or captive held against their will and figure out what to do with them later. But Arthur wanted none of them to remain in his cities to infest his kingdom any further. No reminders of these savages would be left. Making his way through the slain that littered the entrance of the throne room and into the corridor, he glanced in both directions for any glimpse of red.

"Guards!" He shouted fiercely. "Guards!" Through all of this, he wanted so desperately to find Guinevere, to know that she was safe, but he remained at his post to defend the crown and protect Tristan and Isolde until help arrived. He knew his shouting could very well summon the enemy, and it did, but only a few in which he easily defeated until a flood of chain and red filled the halls.

Ranulf trudged through bodies toward the king. "Arthur!" he shouted, so very relieved to see his king and childhood friend. "I'm glad you're well."

Arthur could tell they were all pleased to see him but gave no heed to the warmest welcome he'd received yet. "Secure the servant's entrance in the throne room. There's injured in there." He turned to another knight. "Brennis, signal our forces in the forest. Don't let any escape." And to a soldier whose name he could not remember, "I need Gaius and a litter to carry one of ours to the infirmary."

"Gaius is in no condition to treat anyone, Arthur," Ranulf replied after ordering men into the throne room. "He's near starved to death."

"Search the city for other healers, then," the king commanded, an edge to his voice. "And get word to Queen Annis and the others of our need. Surely, they have physicians that can aid us."

"Yes, sire," Brennis answered. "Right away."

Ranulf followed Arthur into the throne room with several more guards and took up defensive positions while the others hurried away to carry out the king's orders.

…..

Gwen chased the High Priestess, a former lady of the court, her past mistress. Her heart raced, her thoughts filled with the contradictions of their lives. She did not look forward to a fight to the death with someone she once loved.

Once loved.

The woman had meant so much to her in their early years together. From the time of Morgana's arrival at the castle as Uther's ward, Gwen had been in her service. She was twelve years old. Morgana was ten. Having lost her mother years before, their grief was something they held in common, the thing that bound them closer near immediately. When in the privacy of Morgana's lavished chambers, they were more themselves, shedding the bonds of protocol and propriety to share their fears and childish secrets. Over time, they'd shared a sister's heart.

But through all their fancies, neither had foreseen becoming queens of Camelot, though Gwen thought her mistress would one day. Well, she had almost become queen, and Morgana's reigns were both ones of terror. They had not done so well for themselves, after all, the dreams of silly little girls anything but whimsical notions. Real life was so much more toxic and unforgiving at times.

And things had changed once Morgause came into their lives, her stealing the lady of the court's affections, and her loyalty. It had never been the same after that, Gwen sensing an iciness in Morgana's words and sometimes in a glare. She feared the High Priestess now, someone who'd once been as fiercely devoted to the security of Camelot and the safety of her friends as she was. They had fought side by side on some occasions and even sparred a few times in secret. If the social classes had not separated them, she was sure they would have called each other sister. So what cause had she ever given Morgana to turn her vindictive madness upon her? Gwen steadied her breathing. She could not let her feelings of friendship interfere with what Fate had set before her, not after everything Morgana had done to them all.

She knew the castle well. The servant's entrance from the throne room branched in many directions after a time and from the trail of fallen knights in one of them, Gwen knew that Morgana was heading for the hallway that would eventually lead to her freedom. She could cut off the witch's path if she took the corridor on the right.

As soon as she rounded the corner, Gwen could hear steps coming her way, and when Morgana came into the light, her look of despair quickly turned to hate as soon as they made eye contact. Gwen crouched into a defensive stance, then noticed that Morgana was clutching her right side with blood stained fingers as she approached and a sword was in her other hand.

"I see Arthur's aim is as poor as his choice in women," the High Priestess sneered. "I guess I'll have to kill you myself."

Gwen set her jaw, but her lips trembled a little. Morgana wanted her dead. Those words quickly extinguished her concern for the witch and ignited her will to stay alive. It was her life or Morgana's. Their blades clashed with a flash of iron.

"What did I do to make you hate me so much?" Gwen had become more nervous than she wanted to admit, her footwork lacking balance, her swordsmanship predictable.

"It's not what you did," Morgana replied, easily stopping Gwen's high line strike and staring her in the eyes. "It's what you're destined to do."

What was she destined to do that Morgana felt she deserved to die? Was this about Arthur? Was Morgana's hatred of her because she loved a man? No. A prince. A king. Was this to keep her from one day becoming Queen? Gwen wanted to be Arthur's wife above all else. She would have loved him as a peasant if that had been his lot in life. It was what was inside that attracted her to him, a vulnerable and lonely man behind the crown. To Morgana, she would always be a pawn to weaken Arthur.

"I'm sorry, Gwen, but I can never let that happen."

Gwen's concentration wavered too much and Morgana disarmed her with two twists of her wrist, and with perfect execution, dislodged Gwen's sword, her own weapon positioned dangerously close to Gwen's neck. The High Priestess drew back the sword and raised her weapon's arm to eye level. A small smile of victory came to her lips as she stepped forward to deliver the final strike. Destiny be damned.

…..

They should not have split up. The forward thrust of Morgana's deathblow was already in motion when Merlin skidded to a halt at the corner behind Gwen. The spell on his lips was cast by instinct and he pushed the High Priestess through the air further than anyone before. The force was strong enough to cause pieces of the ceiling to collapse upon her in a plume of dust and a crash of stone. Startling Gwen, her hands flew up in a protective gesture. That was more power than what was expected or needed, and he'd summoned that spell without saying a word. He'd never done that before. Hurrying to Gwen, he grasped her arm.

"You all right?" he asked.

Gwen, stunned from what had just happened and from yet another strange chance in her favor replied, "Yes."

Merlin took a few steps beyond her, his form protecting her, to see that Morgana was unmoving in the rubble and unsettled dust. He would need help getting her unconscious body to the cells. He'd also need to erect another effigy to keep her magic bound. How he would manage that for an extensive period of time and keep it from Arthur was going to be a problem.

Gwen asked from behind, "What happened?"

"I don't know," Merlin lied in a whisper, stepping to the side of Morgana's form and then squatting next to her. "But let's get her to the dungeons before she wakes up. Gwen, help me. Take her other arm."

Gwen scooped up her sword before moving beside them and helped to lift the dead weight of their unconscious former friend, though Merlin carried the bulk of her. "How do you hope to indefinitely contain a High Priestess?"

"Well, I think there's something in the vaults. I'm sure I recall seeing a few magical restraining devices in the inventory." He had access to such contraband having cataloged several artifacts since his arrival, and recalling the cursed shackles Morgana had used on him when she'd captured him, unknowingly binding his magic and keeping him from easily killing Arthur, as it had been her intentions. "And, perhaps, a few drops of belladonna to keep her unconscious until I can find such an object."

They were by then near the iron stairs that led to the first level when knights swarmed around them, their weapons too close to vital parts.

"Wait!" the servant shouted. "We need help!"

"It's Merlin!" someone said. It was Sir Vidor, a knight from Arthur's advance force.

"Lady Guinevere," another knight said upon realizing who she was and relieving her of her burden. Gwen thought his name was Sir Hugh as Vidor took Merlin's place as well.

"Get her to the dungeons right away," Merlin instructed. "Isolate her. I need someone to get to Gaius' chambers and retrieve a vial of belladonna. For the sake of us all, administer it to her right away—only two drops. We must keep her unconscious for as long as we can. Understand?"

For a moment it appeared they had not by the setting of jaws and jutting of chins from the two men, taking orders from a mere servant something they were not accustomed to. But Merlin was no ordinary servant, at least not to their king; and this was no ordinary prisoner.

Guinevere added with urgency, a touch of authority to her voice. "You mustn't delay. She could regain her powers any moment if we don't act quickly."

"Of course, my lady," Hugh answered with a brisk nod. "We'll take care it." They left in a flurry of red capes descending the wrought iron stairs as the servant and former handmaiden turned around, toward corridors that would lead them back to the servant's entrance of the throne room. A group of knights followed them, and some of them scurried forward to protect them.

"How do you supposed she lost her powers?" Gwen asked, their pace long and hurried. "Do you think she was ill? She looked so pale and thin."

"I don't know, but—" He was so tired of lying. "—we should be thankful that she did—lose her powers, that is."

Gwen hummed with contemplation. "We can't hold her forever, Merlin," she said with soft despair after another moment. "We'll never be safe as long as she lives." One look at her friend when he didn't respond, and she knew he believed that, too.


	17. What Price Victory

**A/N: Greetings, my lovely friends. All I can say is that the story continues and I hope you enjoy. As usual, I don't own Merlin.**

…..

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 17 What Price Victory

Maxwell had barely made it to his perch on the second floor of the Great Hall's balcony already full of archers when he spotted his target moments before he felt the magic, the clear aura of the last sorcerer now visible in the ebb and flow of Southrons and servants rushing to battle. The man's shoulder-length silver hair and long flowing robe were things not easily missed either. The knight hurried back down the stone walkway, trailing the man with his eyes, but trying not to draw undue attention to his haste before exiting through the archway. After all, he had just arrived at his post, supposedly to do his duty against the enemy.

The healing spell had already done its work on the wounds inflicted by Sagan, the swollen eyes gone, the broken nose snapped back into place that brought water to his eyes, and even a brand new tooth had pushed through tender gums more painfully than losing it, making water spill down his cheeks and bruise his ego. Once he understood the limitless possibilities of magic, time, patience, study, and practice were vital to any sorcerer's growth. Devoid of any one of those elements resulted in the effectiveness of one's magic. And Maxwell had studied very hard. Sprinting down spiral stairs, but then resuming a normal stride as he exited the turret a few paces behind Dodd, he hitched his breath to calm his racing heart, then exhaled it quietly through flaring nostrils.

There were too many of the enemy around for him to do no more than follow. He knew none of them was no match for him if taken off guard, but he could not bear a repeat of what had happened at the Southron encampment. He dared not ever to again no matter their odds. They'd have to get out of whatever mess they'd stumbled into the old-fashioned way: by brain and brawn, and perhaps just a little bit of magic.

Maxwell ascended the stone steps like the rest of them and readied their deadly assortment of weapons as his mark surged further ahead. Drawing his sword as well, he entered the unmanned disarming room on the ground floor, the collection of soldiers then splitting into all directions. He followed his target's group toward the stairs leading to the throne room on the second floor, quickening his pace to match theirs. Fighting could be heard on each level now and men peeled off to engage. The sorcerer continued his climb.

Dodd relied on his magic and instincts more than he did on men and iron. He felt eyes on him and glanced over his shoulder on impulse. He recognized some of the soldiers, but they looked the same to him, especially the ones wearing scarves, hoods, or turbans. He supposed it was a loose Southron custom, but he didn't understand why, since some wore concealing wraps and others did not. They certainly didn't afford them any sort of protection for the head, not like the armor of the soldiers and knights of the Five Kingdoms, and it really wasn't cold enough for the added layers. Still, someone was watching him too intently, so taking one more flight of stairs above the throne room floor, he'd see who would not engage in the fighting and was foolish enough to follow. He had confidence in Morgana holding her own against the deposed king and his forces until he arrived.

Maxwell would be seeing red soon, and he was dressed as anything but a knight. He could hear the clash of swords and clamor of war on each level of his ascension and if they mistook him for the enemy, well, he hoped he'd have enough time to identify himself before he or a comrade was killed.

But the sorcerer had glanced behind him, sharp grey eyes scanning the faces of the men at his back, including his, in a quick, wary glimpse. And now that he'd peered into the eyes of his prey, something else had stirred behind them, an echo of power untamed, flickering at the edges of grey-crystal lenses and Maxwell did all he could to keep from flinching, his flesh raised in protest as a chill fled down his spine. He'd never experienced such a thing and had no idea what it meant if it meant anything at all. There were fewer of them now, and his mark was still climbing, though now he was almost within arm's reach. The knight's other hand rested on a dagger's handle in the bandolier tucked under his vest. Any of them would do, and the man was so close, but Maxwell didn't think he could kill anyone again without looking them in the eye. He removed his hand from the dagger and gripped his sword tighter.

Dodd suddenly sprinted two steps at a time and then exited the third floor into an open area of guest apartments and other public rooms, running for distance and cover behind a column if anyone followed him with as much urgency.

Someone did.

" _Oferswing!_ " Wasting no time sending a disabling spell at his pursuer, Dodd was momentarily stunned himself when the man effectively deflected it with a swipe of his hand. A sorcerer, he surmised with a grim sneer, and not truly in their ranks. The enemy, then. Dodd cast another spell almost instantly before sprinting down the corridor, but again, the imposter dodged it.

One of those energy blasts would have been enough to knock Maxwell unconscious had it hit him squarely, the strength of it felt as he repelled it with an outstretched hand and a blocking spell. Two of them probably would have killed him upon his impact with a solid object or wall. His quarry had rounded a corner though, out of sight, but not to his enhanced sensing ability.

He peered around the edge of a pillar just as a volley of firebolts slammed into the stone at face-level, shrapnel slicing through cheek, granules embedding painfully in eye and temple, and flaring fresh wounds to excruciating levels. Maxwell screamed in agony, his flesh still tender from the previous injuries just recently healed, and fell back against the column, a hand shaking uncontrollably near his face, his mind scrambling for the healing spell.

…..

Just as the firebolts left his hand, the floor caved in next to Dodd, and he leaped for balance and cover, grasping the column beside him. Peering through the gaping hole, he saw the High Priestess lifeless, unconscious in the rubble below. His breathing intensified as perspiration beaded his face and his brow scrunched in confusion.

"No," he whispered with incredulity, stupefied beyond the eloquence of his speech. "It can't be." He heard voices rising through the opening, no doubt the powerful sorcerers who'd apparently defeated his mistress. "How is this possible?" Morgana was the last High Priestess blessed with the power of hell, a disciple of the Triple Goddess, the greatest witch he'd ever known. All their hopes of living without fear had rested upon her abilities to kill Pendragon and maintain control of the kingdom. He'd believed in her even though her tactics were harsh, her reign dark and terrible, not to mention the spiteful destruction of the towns and crops that affected them all. It had only been a week, yet he should have heeded the signs of fragmentation, that it could not hold.

A man knelt beside Morgana. "But let's get her to the dungeons before she wakes up," he said. "Gwen, help me. Take her other arm." Dodd could see a woman now, squatting to help lift his unconscious mistress with a little difficulty before getting one of Morgana's limp arms around her shoulder.

"How do you hope to indefinitely contain a High Priestess?" she asked.

"Well, I think there's something in the vaults. I'm sure I recall…."

Dodd could hear no more, their voices waning with distance as he struggled to comprehend fully what he'd just witnessed, what he'd just heard, what it all meant.

Sorcerers in Camelot, aiding a king that would summarily execute them for their gifts. Why? Did the vile king find it gainful to use sorcerers when it benefited him all the while killing and persecuting others to feed his blood lust and maintain power through terror and intimidation of his kind? The dragon had roared in spectacular fashion and the castle was now his. Morgana's defeat was a disheartening loss, and someone was trying to kill him. Dodd glanced at his hands when he realized the tremors were threatening to return and he clasped them in a desperate grasp to ease his elevating fears.

…..

" _Wel cene hole,_ " Maxwell rasped through clenched teeth. The relief was not instant, the fog of pain ebbing into a dull throb as the wounds on his face wove their intricate patterns back into their normal place, the foreign objects slipping out of flesh, bone, and eyes to fall harmlessly to the floor. Maxwell was used to injury and pain, the life he'd chosen not one of safety or comfort. He'd learned several healing spells as a necessity, and if it posed no jeopardy to his identity, was not hesitant to use them on another. His heart rate steadied as the pain eased, and now able to sense that the sorcerer was pulling away, on the move again. He pushed off the pillar, the urgency to finish his mission spurring him on.

He hazarded another glimpse around the corner of the damaged column and saw nothing but a gaping hole in the floor. Then an aura, strangely oval in its form but with no sorcerer visible to own it, glided almost hesitantly against the rough stone wall, easing around the opening in the floor. He'd seen this before. A concealment spell unable to be hidden from someone like him.

" _Wáce i_ er _lic!_ " Maxwell chanted another spell meant to knock the aura over, but the form unexpectedly jumped the hole and darted behind another pillar to safety. The knight cursed under his breath and then hitched it when four identical sorcerers suddenly sprinted in different directions. Two fled down opposite corridors and one fell down, tripping over his robe, but another made it to the northeast turret.

It was a trick that would have worked on any other person, but Maxwell followed only one, the others decoys, illusions with only minute traces of an aura. Jumping the cavity on the floor at a run, magic pulled him down the steps of the northeast tower.

…..

Arthur leaned against a pillar, cradling his aching side and wrestled with his thoughts. In all the wars and battles that had come to his door front, the invasions and the conquests that bloodied the lands, never in his life had he seen so much of it on the floor of the throne room. The corridors and hallways, the courtyard and streets were always bloodied and bodies of friend and foe would litter his citadel and city, but the throne rooms had always somehow remained exempt from the carnage. That was no longer true with Helios and many of his men strewn about the chamber in bloody death throes. Isolde lay dying in her own life source as well, and Tristan was near soaked in it.

The smuggler gently cradled his woman, her eyes wide and glazed with shock as he slumped against one of the great columns and slid heavily, miserably to the floor. Even as Merlin and Gwen approached from the other side, Arthur's relief that they were safe and hopefully victorious over Morgana was shrouded in sadness by this loss. The king could not celebrate in triumph, nor break his gaze from the couple who had no business fighting at his side. They'd already lost everything because of him, had sacrificed so much for his cause, now one of them lay fatally wounded as the reward her for all her troubles. His eyelids rimmed red in a losing battle of stinging water as they said their last goodbye.

"I'm sorry," Isolde apologized weakly, as if it were her fault to have been injured, as if she knew what this meant for them.

Tristan hushed her with a soft kiss to her forehead.

"Our dreams," she rasped. Sadly, she did know. It had not just been their skills with swordplay that had kept her alive all this time, but luck. She'd looked at it a game sometimes, so finely tune with Tristan's moves that she only had to work half as hard to do her part. And sometimes when she fought alone, she knew she was not as talented as the love of her life, and it especially rang true after being injured when their camp was raided a week ago.

"Isolde, don't."

Arthur then looked up to meet Gwen's tearful eyes. They'd had dreams too, and all of them came crashing in on the king so hauntingly painfully that the water in his eyes fell. That could be them there instead of Tristan and Isolde. He could be holding onto to Guinevere as the final breaths of life slipped from her instead. These last few month's his life had been empty without her, self-imposed to live day to day alone for the sake of his kingdom without love to share, existing on the brink, but in the knowing that she was alive somewhere he had endured. Now he nearly collapsed at the thought of losing her forever to the hand of death, and as they gazed upon each other, all he could see was a reflection of his own sorrow, hopelessness, and regret.

He needed her, and would do whatever he could to prove that to her now. The power of Excalibur was definitive, made him realize that she held no fault, though he did not understand what that meant having seeing her with his own eyes kissing Lancelot. And yet if she was not guilty by some otherly reason, then what he had done to her may have assured he'd be alone for the rest of his days if she saw fit not to forgive him. Now he dreaded their future lost, and that made him even more pitiful.

"Hold me," Isolde pleaded softly, her senses dulled, not feeling the man's arms already wrapped tightly around her. But Tristan coiled around her small frame even tighter just as her eyes closed, her body going limp and her head reclining. He gently brought her face to him and caressed it, then kissed his beloved farewell.

"We must get her to Gaius' chamber," Merlin said softly, though with a healer's urgency. He knelt beside them. "I can help her."

Tristan lifted hollow blue eyes filled with tears. "It's too late."

"She's just unconscious," Merlin said, removing his scarf and pressing it against the worst part of her open wound. Scolding himself under his breath, he knew that Gaius would have preferred he use something a little less dirty, but that all he had on the spur. "We've got to stop the blood loss. That's almost always fatal. Here." He took one of Tristan's hands and held it firmly over the cloth. "Let me try to heal her."

The soldier whose name Arthur couldn't remember a few moments ago rushed in with knights, servants, and a pair of guards carrying a litter. Upon seeing the man this time, his name clicked in Arthur's head.

"Simon," the king said, summoning all of his royal countenance back to the surface. "Hurry. You others, clear a path to the physician's quarters."

Gwen moved to Arthur's side as Isolde was carefully laid on her side onto the litter, and Arthur reached for her hand without thought, as he had done so many times before, as if there had been no great chasm between their love and trust. She glanced at his gentle grip, and then at the king. His jaw was slacked, his lips working in that way when he was troubled or fighting some other rampaging emotion or thought, worried eyes locked on his friends as they carried her out, Tristan beside her, his hand still clasped to the bloodstained scarf but eyes ever hopeful.

Arthur never cared who saw his displays of affection toward her these last few years, once everyone knew his firm stance on the matter, once they were sure he was not still under Dragoon's love enchantment or that he wasn't under another one. Still, it was presumptuous of him to believe she'd want to take his hand after all this time, after all of his harsh words, but Arthur was always arrogant in that way, though now it wasn't that at all. When he'd looked at her a moment ago, she thought she was seeing an image of herself, the same pain and sorrow she'd lived these long months radiating from his entire countenance, in believing they'd never see each other again, that life was as hollow as their empty hearts without each other. It had been a death of its own of sorts.

And seeing how Fate intruded into what she thought was already a cruel reality, perceptions and ideals were forced to change. Tristan and Isolde had dreams, wanted a little land, to grow old together despite their penchant for dangerous living. Life was fleeting, precious, little time to do all that one aspired to do, or to be, and sometimes things got in the way, and one could go astray and miss what was most important, miss what was right in front of them, and before they knew it, Fate would snatch it from their grasp. For good. What was Fate trying to tell her now?

Arthur extracted his hand and turned square to face her, placing his hands on his hips. He didn't know what to say as they gazed at each other, nor where to start, for there was so much. She was safe. She was beautiful, smudges of dirt and disheveled hair adding to her natural loveliness. She was here at last.

"I'm glad you're all right." Honestly, he wanted to kiss her, to draw her into his arms and never let go. To marry her now and have her. Ever since he fell in love with her, conflict or battle had roused another type of lust in him, him desiring to be with her first before seeing anyone else upon his returns. They'd never made love—he would never dishonor her in that way—but they had come so close too many times. He should have married her long ago. He should not have kept her waiting. He cleared his throat at his selfish heart and dropped his eyes for a moment. "Morgana?"

"In the cells." Gwen was almost relieved over the question, not ready to face what was truly on her mind. Perhaps, he was not either. "Whatever caused her to lose her powers won't last forever. You'll have to keep her sedated for now, but Merlin believes there might be some magical restraining devices in the vaults that could possibly hold her indefinitely."

"I'll see to it." He shifted his weight as he reached for her arm, his eyes clouded with remorse. "Gwen—"

"Your Majesty!" someone called.

Arthur dropped his arm, suddenly surrounded by a rush of people and immersed in a sea of bodies eager to see him and rejoice in his return and his victory. Hands were all over the king as they thronged around him, congratulating him, thanking him, praising their sovereign with splendid adoration and glory. Their joy was infectious as he shook hands and clapped backs, his eyes sparkling for the first time in a long while, perhaps. Gwen withdrew from the crowd, backing away, finally losing the few glimpses of eye contact they made with each other and seeing only the top of his golden head, if that. She was proud of him.

Movement to her left made her look in that direction. Three soldiers were struggling to lift a body on a cart already full of Southron dead. It was Helios, the dead weight of his solid bulk too much for even three of them. She found herself walking toward him, hypnotized by the scene as they finally found their grip and unceremoniously threw his body on the pile. He must have been the last one because the cart started moving toward the great doors, its destination a mass grave far outside the city walls.

Gwen followed it with her eyes, not even noticing that she'd walked through his spilled blood and was tracking it on the stone floor. It was over. It was done. All the power he so coveted was lost with him, and he would not hurt another soul again. Maybe she would sleep better in knowing that.

Finding Arthur again in the mass of citizens, he was giving instructions now as well as receiving information. He was going to be a while, she knew. There was a lot to do still, all their strength needed over the next few days to prepare for the reconstruction that was to follow. She was uncertain, though, if she would be a part of it.

…..

When he heard footsteps following him down the stairwell, Dodd cursed. That sorcerer was either very clever or very lucky, his three decoys not slowing the man down in the least. He had to lose this nuisance fast, and to do that, he needed to be rid of the robes and to blend in as best he could.

He hated his white hair at times, always a dead giveaway and easy target in times like these; but the women loved it otherwise. He'd been told many times how handsome he was and used it as an advantage in business and with the women. Yet, as a master of illusion, changing his looks and his clothing took no effort at all, especially when necessity dictated. In the wink of an eye, his hair became curly, black, and shorter, and his clothes turned in a hard leather vest and black short coat. His face was different, too: dark brown eyes and a perpetual sneer. He looked like the son of the merchant that he was more than the opportunist that he came to be.

Dodd had used this face before more than any other, relying on it the most when his own courage wavered. This persona somehow made him feel more confident, edgy with an aggressive attitude that even tamed the bully, Captain Sagar. He could hold it for hours, days if he had to, each minute making him the more intimidating. He had a name for him. Killian. And he insisted being called that when he wore this face. Morgana was not amused, yet even she would not deny his request.

The battle was likely waning in their favor, won by their enemy, the Pendragon, and the castle would soon return to its former colors of chain and red, shedding all remnants of leather and black. The only way he could make it out of here was to become one of them, and in an instant, Killian was dressed as a guard with full helm, chainmail, and the colors of Camelot. His sword looked like a spear. Exiting the turret on the first level, he took that long walk down the corridor filled with the enemy toward the entrance to the castle, resisting the urge to strike them down one at a time as he did so. The steps were only a few paces from him now and he descended them just as a voice called to someone behind him.

"Sir Maxwell?!"

Killian kept walking, but the voice boomed over the flurry of activity in the great courtyard, banners and emblems of a few other kingdoms merging in with Camelot's. Southron's were being herded into small groups. He saw Helen amongst them, Dodd's dark-haired lover with the fiery spirit, though Killian did not care whether she fared well with her captors or not.

"Sir Maxwell, you're urgently needed," the man called again, and this time Killian stopped in the midst of his enemies to follow his instincts and looked toward the voice. Gathering the reins of a horse that some noble just thrust in his hands after he'd dismounted and then strolled away, Killian recovered from his temporary shock and played his part, petting the animal's snout as he glanced again at this _Sir Maxwell_.

The imposter who'd been chasing him had already removed his Southron headgear and any other piece of the uniform that would easily identify him as the enemy. Two knights were speaking to him, the largest of them flicked at his uniform as Maxwell threw a scowl at Killian, and Killian knew then that when the man honed in on him even though he'd changed to appear as one of them and in a mass of other people, that he could sense sorcerers and their magic. So it had not been luck after all, but a natural born talent used to strike down his kin. His friends were all probably dead, Brigitta, Cretch, Sagan, murdered in vile and cowardly ways by the order of the Dread King. Pendragon, with all his foul deceptions, was abominable.

Killian caught one more glare from Sir Maxwell and he repaid him with a dark and wry victorious grin before turning and working his way through the crowd with the horse trailing behind him. He knew the man wouldn't follow him now, there was no point, and something more urgent called for his attention.

His choices were clear now: He would bide his time. He would wait. He would seek his revenge against Sir Maxwell, that woman, _Gwen_ , and her accomplice who'd captured Morgana. And for good measure, he would make their hypocritical king watch each one die before he killed him, too.

Killian's own private war had just begun.

…..

Annis' forces had already swept through the towns of Camelot, routing the Southrons and ushering them into the courtyard of the Citadel. After sending Maxwell to aid Merlin, Leon and Percival took to opposite sides of the cobbled streets of the Upper Town already flowing with knights and freed citizens of Camelot in a euphoric din of victory. He should be coordinating the security of the castle, dispositioning the prisoners, in council with Arthur and the other monarchs, but in his heart, Leon felt he needed to be here instead. Cottage after cottage they searched, though few nobles were found in the Upper Town and none had seen his family.

Leon hadn't really notice Mylla growing up, she being just another skinny girl he'd known practically all her life, another haughty noble's daughter he'd seen at festivals, court, and other occasions. It was when he was fifteen and she eleven when their families unexpectedly announced their betrothal that he then took only a little interest. He had two more years of squiredom before he could hope to become a knight and she was still just a silly little girl with pure elitist airs. And with times bad enough, since King Uther's war against sorcery burdened the kingdom and the pressures of economic stability affected them all, he was secretly relieved that their marriage had been delayed.

Not really spending any time with her until she was seventeen, though he should have, her being a product of her environment, almost a complete opposite of him despite their noble standings, he'd dutifully made their betrothal formal by courting her as often as he could, getting glimpses of her personality and beliefs more than exploring them as he should. But those glimpses were more than enough to know that she was vastly different from a woman he would have chosen.

Mylla had blossomed into a picture of radiance, tall and lithe, and auburn hair with streaks of blonde that flowed down her back. Her voice was musical, her eyes green with flecks of brown that sparkled when she laughed, and glossed lips that beckoned his kiss. As much as he tried though, her aristocratic behavior overshadowed her physical qualities in ways that did not appeal to Leon nor his family. She was shallow and two-dimensional, and her ill regard for the commoner stained her beauty and her charm and sometimes was hard to bare.

They married nearly one year later. By then, he'd become a squadron captain and rose to the leadership role like a natural. Leon was twenty-one when he took Mylla as a wife, and he'd entered the arrangement like an obligation, though try as he might, he had not fallen in love with her.

By the time they reached the edges of the town where lower-classed guardsmen, merchants, artisans, and tradesmen once dwelt with their families, he found more of the nobility in these modest homes, broken families taken in by other broken families, by their lessers. Even Gwen's house was occupied, the boards removed and Sir Ranulf's household of six, including two servants, taking up residence. His friend would be relieved that they were well, though desperate they had become from the experience. They'd all be reunited soon enough though some families would not be as complete.

The censuses were what he least looked forward to and he shuttered with a feeling that his family would be listed on the rolls of the dead or missing. When he did not find them within the relatively safe walls of the city, and Percival exiting the last house with a face as solemn as before they'd first started this search, his chest constricted knowing the despairing conditions the Lower Town could suffer during war and he could barely hold onto his sword.

Leon had been awkward around Mylla during times when he saw her maltreatment of servants, and in their first year together, he'd said little as she humiliated the help for mistakes small or otherwise, or of her constant need for attention and attendance. The servants in his father's manor were not accustomed to such treatment, were respected as trusted household members, even sought out for counsel or comfort at times. His subtlety was lost on her as he tried to be an example of a good and fair master, but she saw nigh his efforts, for she could be nothing other than a socialite who had never known any other way to live.

And he had not helped since he didn't know how to handle her and her apparent neediness, especially when his duties began to consume much more of his time. When he became First Knight their second year of marriage, his responsibilities to protect the king and prince took on a completely new meaning and purpose, and he saw even less of her, his presence at their estate negligible.

The twins were born two months by then, however, but pressure from his father had forced him to move them to the Citadel for the sake of their own familial relations. He'd noticed then that Prince Arthur was starting to look at Gwen differently, and secretly, he wished he looked at his wife like that. He'd seen sparks of redeemable qualities in her but they were so different that the sparks had not a chance to grow into anything more. Seeds sown on stony ground and thirsty to be nurtured.

Six years he'd been married to Mylla and never had he said he loved her.

They could have had a good marriage if the timing had been better, or if she had been given more boundaries as a child, or if he had not been brought up to put the kingdom's needs first. But they were both so awkward around each other that what little they may have carved for themselves in the way of happiness was smothered by the expectations of not only their parents but of themselves. He should have tried harder though. Now the guilt of his choices and his treatment of her was like a boulder crushing down on his chest. He could not breathe.

His girls, Rosalinda and Leonora, were only five years old, and like their mother, from their first breaths lived in comfort, were never in want, and therefore not accustomed to hardship. He adored them, his little girls as delicate as the flowers he so often called them, and he feared for their well-being. The Lower Town had turned into everything he dreaded: squalor, ruin, despair, so far from the relatively safe and hospitable streets of just last week.

All roads leading to the Citadel were filled with swarms of people, riders, most of the homes already empty of occupants and adding to the chaos in their search for their loved ones returned. He could not blame them though; he was as desperate as they were.

And when he saw Tillota, the children's old nursemaid in the doorway of a dilapidated hovel peering into the crowd and joyful tears in her eyes, he couldn't help but run to her and embrace her with a brief, yet endearing hug. She was like a blanket of comfort, his nursemaid all over again, and he loved her as one would a mother.

Even Gwen and Elyan had had the benefit of Tillota's nurturing care growing up, their mother bringing them with her to work every day. The nurse could not endure them sat idle in the kitchen or under a tree in the fields all day as their young mother toiled for the comfort of the noble family. She would not have it and upon her insistence and his father's blessing, she cared for the servant's children and fed them from her own wages until they were old enough to serve themselves.

"Master Leon, thank God you are well." But her joy was fleeting, her wrinkled face quickly turning to panic. "Hurry, my lord." She led the two knights inside the small dwelling and Leon was quickly enveloped by the tiny arms of his girls around his legs, their faces suddenly red as a flood of tears made tracks down their cheeks.

"Father!" Leonora cried.

"We missed you, Father!" said Rosalinda, the first-born.

Squatting down to their level, Leon's voice cracked as tears stung his eyes, the bawling twins now wrapped securely in his arms. "And I you, my little daffodils. I am so sorry." His quick assessment of their outward appearance broke his heart, their dark blonde hair limp and lifeless of the neat curls that once bounced with their steps, ribbons dingy and frayed already, their gowns as smudged and dirty as their faces. But they were alive, and those things could be remedied with something as simple as a bath, though water was probably rationed for them and what was given apparently used for drinking and cooking rather than hygiene.

"You won't leave again…?" Leonora began.

"…will you, Father?" Rosalinda finished.

"No, my darlings," he croaked, heaving sobs at how much he'd missed their strange, yet endearing way of finishing the other's thought. Their plea was tearing him apart. "Not like this. Never again." Of course, he would have to leave them, as First Knight to the King of Camelot and Commander of the Army, there was no way of avoiding long spells of absences from home for the call of duty. He'd had no cause to lie to them before now, and why he did this time just seemed like the natural thing to say to frightened little girls. They were too young to understand the responsibilities of his position, but one day he hoped that they would.

In his relief at seeing his children, he had forgotten the panic etched on Tillota's face until she called to him again, who then glanced looked to her left. Leon followed her line of sight, just now realizing how tiny the space they were in. There was only one room in the house dimly lit by a single candle, old and well-worn furniture consisting of a small table and two equally small benches, one bed with a drawn tattered curtain. A pallet of hay was in one corner, a thin blanket over it. He groaned when he realized it served as a bed, perhaps for all three of them. He could see that the four walls and roof were only planks of wood poorly erected and allowed light to seep through its many cracks, and the floor of hard-pressed dirt and straw. There wasn't even a window. Most plainly, Mylla and her handmaiden were not there to greet him and he shuttered at what he would find behind the drapes as his gaze landed on the curtain again.

His mouth suddenly dry, he tore his eyes away from the dreadful cloth and looked up at Percival. Having no need for words, the large man left quietly, only the creak of the door heard in the silence, and waited outside. He'd spotted the curtain near as soon as he walked in, the odor of the sick and dying ever-present in his nostrils. He already knew.

Standing slowly, the girls hugging his long legs as if for dear life, Leon girded himself, for the look on Tillota's face was not one of fair tidings. "What happened?"

"We needed food; the girls had not eaten in two days. Lady Mylla and Eloise set out to find something, anything. She'd bartered most of her jewels for the meager rations she was able to get, being the only thing of value we had to offer. They were robbed returning home day before yesterday, my lord. Eloise was struck with a mace to the head that killed her instantly, I was told, but your wife only received a glancing blow before she was saved by—Southron guards."

"Then she'll be all right?"

"It was enough to do its damage, Leon." Tillota addressed him without title and formality when she was either very angry or very sad, the extremes making his stomach flip now as it had whilst growing up. "She was struck in the midsection and lost the child. She lost a lot of blood in the miscarry, and now there is an infection. No herbs or remedies could be found. I can't get her fever down."

Leon had paled in the telling, though beads of perspiration trailed from head to toe. Losing his balance with the twins tied firmly around his legs, he landed fortuitously on the bench at his knees and found four arms quickly wrapped around his neck.

"Mother's sick," Rosalinda said in one ear.

Leonora asked in the other ear, "Will she be all right?"

Leon glanced up at the nurse who gave a solemn negative with the shake of her head. "I don't know, buttercup," he said, standing as he extricated himself from their grasp and guided the girls to Tillota. "You'll find safety and food in the castle now. Sir Percival will escort you."

He opened the door as the giant knight turned to him. "Take them to our chambers, and find a servant to see to their needs. I—I need a healer most urgently."

Rosalinda was at his knees again, so unlike the independence she so often was in defiance over. How much of this ordeal had taken from them, their struggle to survive in a world vastly different from what they had known, their mother's illness, him not there to protect them, he did not know yet. Leon knelt low and brought both girls closer to him.

"I won't be long, my little bluebells." He could not help comparing his girls to dainty and fragrant flowers. He'd learned many of their names by accident, thanks to Gwen. When they were old enough to explore on their own, Gwen, her hair as wild as the field of flowers she'd often wandered to, talked the noble boy and her brother to sheer boredom as she plucked them and squealed of their qualities. Now he was grateful for the education, finding a use for the many varieties for the love of two little girls.

"I must see to your mother. Will you mind your nurse?"

"Yes," Leonora replied sadly.

"Maybe," Rosalinda sulked, angry already that he was sending them away from him so soon. Leon chuckled softly and pulled them into a comforting embrace. Though twins, the two couldn't be any more opposite, one adventurous, the other demure; one rebellious while the other as obedient as a father could wish.

"Try, Rosalinda," he said. "A lady does not forget her manners." His voice hitched, recalling those words he'd hurled at Mylla during their last argument, right before he'd stormed out with a string of other mean words of a man who'd forgotten his manners. Right before the war. "Go now. We'll be there as soon as we can."

He ushered the three of them through the door and Leonora immediate threw her arms up to Percival as a command to lift her. He smiled with a dip of his head and then scooped up the little girl with no effort at all. Rosalinda held Tillota's hand as the elder woman turned back to Leon, her eyes looking past him and into the darkened house for a moment before resting them on his.

"She was very brave, Leon. She ate very little for the sake of the children. This—ordeal, well, I wish you had seen her courage. You would have been proud of her."

Good God. He thought he'd never hear such fondness spoken of his wife from Tillota. The woman had disapproved of Mylla since before they'd married, having penned the noble as a spoiled wretch who needed her backside spanked, never mind that she was the daughter of a lord. Her praise now proved only a testament of how hopeless she knew the situation, that Mylla way dying.

Leon's head and shoulders slumped upon the realization, the few gasps escaping before he swallowed the hard matter seemingly in his throat. "Thank you, Tillota," he finally whispered. "For taking care of her, and the children. I shall forever be in your debt."

"I'm very sorry." The nurse bowed her head before turning to leave as Leon closed the door. He could smell it now, the reek of sickness burdened with despair, the scent of blood old and rank and heavy in the air. In an instant, he was before the curtain and drew it without pause, only to then hesitate at the heart-wrenching sight before him.

Mylla's auburn hair was braided in a long plait and drawn over her already thin shoulder. Her pale skin glistened with perspiration that covered every part of her, the filthy shift clinging to her body like a second skin. Her eyes had sunken, deep purple lines a high contrast to her whiten complexion. She was covered with two thin blankets soaked with blood on the bottom half. He supposed there was not enough water to keep them clean, nor were there any others on hand save the one used by Tillota and the children, perhaps their only comfort in the cold nights.

For only a second, though, for Leon quickly removed his gloves and knelt beside the woman on the threshold of death's door. He stroked her fevered forehead and called her name. When she didn't respond, Leon took one of her hands from beneath the covers and held it in both of his.

"Mylla, I'm here."

Heavy-lidded eyes fluttered open, a breath escaped, and she seemed to be able to focus on him after a moment. A weak smile formed on her thin, parched lips, and the gloss of her eyes turned into a dim spark. "Leon." It was only one word, but it was labored and her smile almost disappeared. "I thought you were lost to us for sure, this time."

"I'm immortal," he said with gentle jest. "Did I never tell you?" The both smiled genuinely at the other for maybe the first time, recalling the story Leon had told the girls about how the Druids had saved him after an ambush from Escetirian soldiers a few years ago, reviving him with water from the Blessed Cup of Life. He had only been one step from entering death's door himself that day.

"Rosalinda, Leonora…"

"They're safe. Thank you for—…"

"They are our children," she rasped. "I would do it again—if given the choice."

"I know that now." One of Leon's trembling hands came to rest on the blood-stained blanket covering her stomach and he looked from it to her. "Why did not you tell me?" Tears were making trails again down his face. He'd never wept in her presence before, but now he didn't care. "I would have tried harder."

"It doesn't matter, Leon." Mylla struggled to breathe, air catching in her throat and not fully allowing her lungs to expand. Her body shuttered and their hands clasped together ever so tightly. "It's done. All of it. There will be no second chance for us."

"No," he said breathlessly, squeezing her hand, coming so close to her that his face was only inches from hers. "A healer's on his way. You'll be fine." He could feel the heat radiating from her and it sent a frightful chill down his spine.

He couldn't miss the love sparking the flecks in her green eyes, though they were only half opened. "You've never…had cause to shelter me from truths before," she whispered gently. "Please do not allow…for it—now."

Leon gulped in air at this truth. He had said some hurtful things to her in the past, his deep desire for her to change manifesting only through heated arguments their last few years together. It had almost become too easy to do, a good enough excuse for him not to be around her even though the children suffered at their inflexibility. "Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive…I was as much at fault for the disaster of our lives and caused you hurt as well." She closed her eyes for a moment before finding his again and truly focused on him. "But Leon, for the sake of our girls, please try to remember me with some fondness."

The First Knight's heart truly broke then, and his tears spilled upon her cheeks. "I shall remember you with the deepest of love…my beautiful blossom."

Her breath stuttered in her chest and she closed her eyes as tears seeped from the corners, the smallest of smiles on her lips. He'd never spoken of her as if she was as beautiful and delicate as the flowers he so often called his girls. He'd saved all his adoration for them save this one time. And it was as if it was all she'd needed to hear, the reason why she'd clung to this life when death had clawed at her from the beginning. "I'm glad we had this chance to say good-bye, Leon. Kiss me…once with love, just once with—"

As she drew her final breath, Leon pressed his lips to hers and sucked in her last remnant of life, a wisp of air that stuck in his throat as his sobbing made it harder to breathe himself. Why did it take such a tragedy to realize his love for her? Why had he not notice her change? Was he so blinded by her old ways that that was all he could see? All that he wanted to see? Why did he never say he loved her? What was he to do now? What would the death of their mother do to his little girls? He sat with her a while longer before he stood up and gathered her into his arms, his tears now spent.

"Come, my precious rose. Let me take you home."


	18. A Crisis of Conscience

Ch18 A Crisis of Conscience

He was never good at healing spells, the sheer number and intricacy of them eluded him somehow. It had been utter desperation that had aided him when he healed Gwen's bolt wound a few weeks ago, terrified for her when he found her unconscious and shivering in shock alone and unprotected. The other time had been with the help of Kilgharrah to mend Morgana's mortal head injury, but none of that knowledge had stuck with him. Not once had he been successful at completely curing himself with magic, nor anyone else for that matter, but Merlin had promised Tristan a miracle and did the only thing he could help in the interim.

Holding her steady by the shoulder as they made their way to the physician's chambers, he chanted a silent spell, his magic enveloping her in a cocoon that froze her in time in the hope of keeping her alive, that Maxwell had better luck with wounds being that the knight had more magical skills than he did.

Another thing worried him, too. They could not recite any type of incantation with this many people around and he'd have to think of clever ways of getting them out of Gaius' quarters before they attempted such an illegal act.

Natural sunlight spilled into the physician's chamber through a small window and a few candles flickered about for the comfort of the stricken healer laid out on his cot. Gaius stirred awake at the sudden intrusion of voices and clamor. Benches scrapped against the hard floor, shoved aside as his artifacts for study and experimentation were hastily removed from the large table in the far of the room. Once the surface was cleared, Merlin produced a blanket to cover it, and the patient was gently laid upon it, face down.

Gaius was still dehydrated and exhausted of his strength. His lips were parched; his tongue thick and mouth dry as wool. His agitation and weariness was completely forgotten when his old eyes focused on a skinny man with raven-dark hair, large ears, and high cheekbones giving orders to the men who'd carried one of his litters.

Merlin scrambled for the medical bag pegged near the door, remedies and tools ready for quick action. "Victor," he said to one of the guards, adeptly unlatching the bag and drawing out a tanned and well-used pouch. "Check our water supply. Richard, stoke the fire. I may need to cauterize." A tall guard went immediately to the bucket next to the hearth and looked inside as Richard removed his helm, grabbed an iron poker, and cautiously breathed life into the fire with it. Next to Isolde, Merlin unrolled the pouch to the clink of medical tools in the spread, a row of terrifying-looking devices glistening in the dim light, dual straps binding them in place.

A quiet joy gripped Gaius and tears leaked from his eyes. He hadn't seen Merlin in over a week, and though he'd worried more for them than himself, he'd held unwavering faith that he and the king had not been lost to them.

"Merlin," he gasped, so weak that no one could have heard him in the ruckus, but that was all right with Gaius. His boy was safe. He was home, and that was enough for the guardian to gain a measure of much needed and comforting rest despite the commotion in the room. It would settle soon enough.

But Merlin did hear him and looked directly at his mentor with a relieved, yet guilty expression. He hadn't wanted to leave Gaius behind when he and Percival fled with the king, and even though Merlin had been practically shoved out of the castle by Gwaine, Gaius had insisted on staying, too, to buy them time. Morgana had her reasons to despise the physician, so he was grateful Gaius had endured her reckoning whatever it might have been. He truly admired the man's tenacity to hold fast through overwhelming disadvantages in spite of his age.

"Half full, Merlin," Victor said, speaking of the water level in the bucket.

"We'll keep that for drinking and potions," he replied, a fond gaze lingering on Gaius. A more urgent matter was between them now, and Merlin nodded to the stricken man before resuming his immediate task. "Please see to someone bringing a few buckets of fresh water."

The young apprentice plucked a pair of scissors from the unfurled tool set, ready to cut away the leather straps across Isolde's back to assess her entire wound before he paused and looked up. There were still too many eyes on him to do any magic, not to mention that a lady's modesty was at stake.

"Um, Evart, is it? Check the hospital for bandages or at least some fresh linen. Everyone else, I can manage from here, including you, Richard. Thank you. I'm sure the king can use your assistance elsewhere."

Easy enough to get the curious out when all of the soldiers stopped what they were doing and left the chamber with the clank of metal and the cadence of march just as Sir Maxwell hurried in, his Southron remnants raising a few eyebrows in their passing. He went directly to Merlin who was cutting away the leather straps across a woman's back.

Then there stood Tristan.

"I'm not going anywhere," the roguish man assured him, his defiant pale blue eyes locking briefly on Merlin's deep blue ones before his glance fell to Isolde, his hand still pressed firmly on the blood-soaked scarf.

Merlin knew it would come to this, the man as stubborn as a turnip root. He did not have it in him to demand the man to leave his beloved at such a critical time, so what was left was to tell him the truth. Tell him that they could only save Isolde with magic.

"Well then," Maxwell intervened, coming beside the rebellious man and gently guiding Tristan's hand away from the worst of the raw, bloodied wound. "We could use your help. She'll need a painkiller when she revives, so perhaps, you can assist by preparing the herbs for it. I think something to be used in tea?" He looked at Merlin. "Show him what to do while I clean her wound?" Bending low to have a closer look at Helios' work, he saw the last traces of a magical spell dissipate.

Merlin rushed to the rack of dry herbs hanging next to the door, quickly scanning for the needed plants and then plucking a few of them. He was sure Tristan had bristled at taking orders from the noble but he had seemed to deflate a little, his lips pressed in an obstinate frown before acquiescing with a nod.

"Tristan," Merlin beckoned, crossing to a table as far away from the operating bench that he could. He caught a sheepish, yet approving glance from Maxwell as the smuggler swaggered over. Quickly gathering a mortar, pestle, and poultice wraps, Merlin gave Tristan instruction to crush three varieties of dry herbs into flakes and to keep them in separate piles. Suddenly, he felt magic flare from behind while he masterfully distracted Tristan with ratios and portions.

"I thought you were the physician," Tristan scowled. "What's he doing?"

"Um, his lord is keen on his knights being experienced with field triage. Sir Maxwell has the most medical knowledge amongst them, maybe even more than I do. I'm just an apprentice."

"Merlin," the knight called. "What do you have to keep her unconscious? She's coming around."

Tristan immediately started toward them, but Merlin grabbed his arm. "You must get started on these right away." He didn't wait for Tristan's protest before he answered Maxwell. "Um, tincture of belladonna, but what we have is being used on Morgana and in the hospital."

Leaving Tristan to grind the herbs, Merlin scurried to the bureau storing medicinal extracts in their deadliest forms, grabbing a bottle marked with skull and crossbones, and then a poultice. "We have alternatives, mandragora and hemlock. Gaius uses these in emergencies, but we'll have to give to her as an inhalant. It's very potent." Merlin uncorked the tincture to pour on the poultice but stopped when Maxwell stayed his hand.

"Not necessary," he whispered. "She's under a sleeping spell. That was said for him." He cocked his head slightly toward Tristan. Merlin slid his gaze to the other man standing at the end of a table grinding with diffidence, his own eyes warily watching them, however. "I've cleaned the wound. The next part is the hardest. For wounds this deep, I've got to incant a lengthy and powerful spell. I fear you can't distract him for that long."

"That's not all. How do we make it look like magic wasn't use on her? You can't heal her perfectly."

"Hmmm. I'll stop just below the surface, leave enough for stitching; there will be bruising and a scar."

"Honey and extracts of comfrey and stickle wort can still be used for recovery. Good." Merlin swallowed optimism. "Do what you can. I'll take care of Tristan. I'm a master at distraction."

Maxwell closed his eyes, allowing his inner eye to peer into the wound at its deepest level, sending thousands of tendril-like lightening coursing through flesh, bone, and organs. Sword and knife wounds were always the hardest to get right, especially if organs were damaged, the soft tissue delicate in their intricate repair. Isolde was cut cleanly from the middle of her back to her hip, slicing through muscle, three ribs, and puncturing the left kidney and spleen. With the amount of injury and blood loss, by all the laws of nature, Isolde should be dead.

But she wasn't thanks to Merlin's spell, a bit of his life source enveloping her weakened system in a cocoon of magic that not only gave her strength but also slowed down time for her. It was powerful magic that Maxwell thought was unrealized by the warlock. His own healing enchantment was equally complex, though, repairing soft organs, bonding sliced bones, and weaving muscles back into intricate patterns. The mending would take some time.

Merlin had heated the cauterizers to red-hot, gathered honey and potions, threaded needles, and checked on Tristan's progress, all the while blocking the smuggler's view and distracting him with idle chatter. He also bounced back to the operating table on occasion, appearing to aid as naturally as he could. Making it seem that they'd cauterized part of the wound with a sizzling iron was a challenge, but he was sure they'd pulled it off. Still, they were both relieved when liquid gold finally disappeared from Maxwell's eyes.

"Your turn," the knight said hoarsely, his eyes hooded with fatigue, but a faint smile on his lips. He was shaking a little, his face drained of color, and perspiration matted the hair on his forehead and beaded his upper lip. The servant handed him a cloth and he wiped his face.

Merlin looked at what was left, a thin line from the middle of the back to the top of her hip ready to be stitched. He drew a curved bone needle strung with the finest catgut from the medical set while Maxwell met Tristan halfway, though the man craned with frazzled despair beyond him to the woman on the table.

"So long as there are no complications or infection she'll be fine," the knight said, and knowing as a man of action Tristan probably wouldn't be satisfied with such vague assurances, he elaborated only slightly. "It was a clean cut but the blood loss the worst of it." He lied with consummate skill. "We'll get her moved to guest chambers so that she can rest and recover in privacy. She may sleep for a few more days; however, it is for the best that the longer she rests the better her chances." Tristan would question a speedy recovery less if he thought he had a hand in it and keeping Isolde from doing too much too soon might just keep him distracted enough not to look at their methods too closely.

"As long as she lives, that's all that matters. Thank you."

"I'll leave her in your care, then."

Tristan immediately pulled up a bench and seated himself next to Isolde while Merlin silently, tenderly sutured her injury, gently pinching the skin and sewing it as Gaius had taught him, then smearing honey over the wound before covering it with a fresh, clean bandage. Tristan clasped one of her hands and stroked her forehead, the rest of the world now totally out of focus.

The young apprentice covered Isolde with a blanket. Scooping up the used medical instruments, Merlin wiped them down with a cloth, then wrapped them in another before tossing them in the bag. Gaius would have preferred that he put every piece in their proper place, but he'd be using them again soon enough and time was precious. He slung the physician's bag across his shoulder and went to the seated knight, now looking more like himself, the disorienting effects of enchanting such a long and difficult spell having worn off.

"I'm sure I'm needed in the hospital," Merlin said. "I could probably use you there."

"Humph. All the chance I'll get to use magic. I'm useless in any other capacity."

"You may be right." They started for the door only a few steps away when Merlin suddenly remembered last night and stopped in his tracks, turning accusatory eyes on the knight. "You lied to me."

"Of course, I did," Maxwell replied casually, though he should have realized Merlin would be sore with him being that he did not return to their rendezvous last night as planned. "There was work to be done and little time to do it. Our chances were negligible with those sorcerers, Merlin, even if Morgana was out of the equation. All of them were powerful in their own right, and if they'd a chance to strike against us, we would have lost more than what we have."

How could he argue against such a defense and Maxwell had obviously succeeded at eliminating his targets and without jeopardizing their advantage of a surprise attack, so what was done was done. Merlin bobbed his head, and with one deep breath, he shrugged it away with a shake of his head.

"Your patients are waiting," Maxwell reminded him, and they both commenced to walk again. "By the way, how long do you intend to keep that protection spell around Lady Guinevere?"

"What?" Merlin jerked to halt just at the door's threshold, his eyes as wide and glazed as a startled buck. He'd forgotten about the protection spell he'd placed around Gwen after he'd found her injured on the king's hunting grounds near three weeks ago. Good Goddess! He thought that enchantment would have worn off by now.

As the grinning knight shoved the stunned sorcerer into the corridor, neither noticed that Gwaine had come to stand in the cracked door of Merlin's chamber nor had they seen his calculating expression, him following them with narrowed eyes. He hadn't heard what they'd said, but he'd seen what they'd done. He shuffled to the bed and sat down heavily, and after a moment of startling realization, a grin so mysterious spread on his face that everyone else would wonder about it for the rest of the day.

…..

It was the most adequate space they could find to set up the hospital, the area most used during times like these. Wooden tables crammed the Lesser Hall lined in rows was used to treat the most severe, mainly those who'd fought in the battle, some from the dungeons who had not seen care from the previous week's war, and a few from the towns with their own assortment of ailments. Those who could walk or stand on their own were ordered to their chambers or their homes to be looked after as soon as possible. Others were put to work if not seriously injured as Fredrick had, whose wounds were superficial and did what he could in what limited capacity he could give. Once he'd found Gwen in the hospital, he'd refused to leave her. He had not yet been relieved of this responsibility by the king or Sir Leon.

With Gaius recovering and Merlin helping Isolde, Gwen managed well enough to diagnose the severity of the injured with care, compassion, and gritty determination all the while instructing others to fetch supplies or medicine. She did not have time to think about the gore wrecked from sword and mace trauma as it were their wails and cries of pain or that of their loved ones that affected her the most, piercing her very being like a weapon itself. Her own feelings when she was injured were trying to resurface, but she buried them soundly when healers from the other kingdoms suddenly swarmed into the hall to render aid. That was when she saw Elyan trailing in and walking tentatively toward her.

Neither had known the whereabouts or the fate of the other and the relief on their features and filling their hearts pulled them into each other's arms.

"I'm so sorry, Gwen," he softly said. His head was buried in her shoulder; his grip was tight around her.

"We'll talk later about that," she replied, pulling away and staring up at him. She'd already made up her mind to forgive him, though she wasn't going to make it easy for him, nor did she want to speak of it now. It would be too emotional a discussion and she needed to remain level headed during this crisis. "I'm just glad you're all right. What happened to you?"

"After Percival and Merlin pushed on with the king, I stayed back. I fought for as long as I could, but there were too many of them. Morgana captured me and I've been in the dungeons with Gwaine and Gaius since." He didn't mention being tortured to the brink of insanity, sheer agony forcing him to reveal the king's intended destination to Ealdor. He would bare that disgrace, too, when he told Arthur himself. Right now, he needed to face the first reckoning of his dishonorable actions. "I—I should have gone with you." His voice shuttered and he trembled with shame. "I made a mistake."

Gwen sighed. He was pressing the issue, looking for absolution, but someone behind her wailed and she knew this had to wait no matter how important it was to him. "We've both guilty of that, Elyan. My only wish is that we can move beyond our misfortune. With time," she added. She embraced him in her arms again before letting him go. "Get some food, rest. Can you make it to your chambers alone? I'll look in on you as soon as I can."

The weary knight nodded solemnly, and then tenderly kissed his sister's forehead before walking away with the shuffle of a tired, old soldier. It had been easier than he'd thought it would be, but common sense told him it was due only to the initial joy of seeing him alive and the urgency around her that demanded her attention. He did not miss what last she said, and somehow he felt their next conversation was not going to be as forgiving.

…..

Leon had walked all the way to the Citadel, passing Percival and a woman who was presumably the healer he had requested without a word or a glance, nor did he see the last of the Southron prisoners being herded through the gates, or hear the revelry of his people in a procession through the towns. Percival had taken one sad look at him and then took point, clearing the way for him and the burden cradled gently in his arms. They hadn't spoken a word to each other, but then they did not need to.

Percival led him to the northwest section of the courtyard where the remains of their fallen were being laid until their names were added to the scrolls or until they could be identified, fewer bodies this time around, but still too many. The distress on Leon's face came in waves as he looked upon the rows of shrouded silence on the stone cold ground: guilt, sadness, fear, each taking turns but neither helping him to make a decision on what he should do next.

"Let's get registered," Percival suggested quietly, knowing that Leon knew they'd be listing Mylla's name on a different scroll. "We'll start there, yeah?"

He'd given the names of the twins and Tillota to the scribe for the survivors, and his, of course, and his wife's name to the scribe for the deceased. He must have because the next thing he actually remembered with certainly was asking Percival to hitch a wagon with a day's provision for four. He even remembered handing Mylla over to his friend upon Percival's insistence. He just couldn't recall giving an account to the scribe.

"I'll take care of her," Percival promised. "You do what you must."

Leon nodded and then walked toward the castle entrance. Arthur would be in the throne room or his privy chambers, and the latter was where he'd found him, a column of lords leaving as he arrived.

"My lord," Leon said, adding a quick bow of his head. The king looked up from the stack of parchments.

"Leon, I heard your rescue of the knights from the dungeons was well executed with an attack from multiple directions, the very same strategy we used against Cenred's men. Well done."

"It worked last time to catch them off guard, but we still lost a few, sire."

"I know," the king replied solemnly, already having read the first census reports and mourning the names listed on that particular one. "Isolde was seriously wounded. It's doubtful she will survive, but Merlin's optimistic."

"Good to Merlin then, sire. He's asked for Sir Maxwell's assistance. I'm sure her chances are better now."

Arthur's face scrunched with skepticism. "Really?"

"He's well skilled in field medicine apparently, and since Gaius is recovering himself, Merlin could use the help. I suppose."

An awkward moment of silence passed and Arthur saw indecision cross his first knight's face. There was a sadness about him, too. The king stood and went to his knight.

"What has happened? Your family, are they well?"

"The girls seem fine, but Mylla, she…she and our unborn child—died…from injuries sustained in a robbery attempt."

Arthur's hand shot up to Leon's arm, more to steady himself than the knight. Such a tragic loss would be devastating to any husband. He had not known Leon's family well since they'd rarely visited the Citadel, and during most celebrations, the knight would travel home to be with them if his duty allowed. All he really remembered was that she was very beautiful and that Leon seemed particularly private regarding her, his honor not allowing him to sink to the levels some of his other knights have been known to go.

"I grieve with you, my friend. Truly, I am sorry."

Leon could only swallow with a stiff nod of his head. "I…need to take her home. To her family. The girls and I will be leaving for the manor shortly."

"Of course. Take all the time you need."

"That's just it, Arthur. I…do not think I'll be returning."

Arthur's eyebrows deepened and his lips didn't waste time forming a pout. Leon had been at his side nearly twelve years and suddenly being faced with his absence disturbed the king. "You're resigning your commission?"

"I love Camelot, Arthur. I would defend her with my last breath. But my children. I must take care of them. I am all they have left."

"I see." The king could not argue with a man with a desire to protect his family. He'd never felt complete with the absence of his mother and he had never known her. For Leon's little ones, it would be that much harder having had her for some years just to lose her so suddenly. To know that Leon now chose to see to their care personally was something he admired and knew would be best for them all. Uther had left his upbringing in the hands of nursemaids, tutors, and advisors with never a nurturing word. What he would have done to have had an encouraging embrace from his father when he was old enough and skilled enough to take note of its need. "I understand."

Returning to his chair, Arthur laced his fingers and rested his elbows atop stacks of reports. "Your recommendation for a replacement?"

"Someone without a family," he said quite firmly. "He will serve you better, and himself."

"There's always that, Leon," the king reasoned. "What's to keep it from happening?"

"Sir Vidor has taken the Vow of Chastity. On his honor, he would not break it."

Arthur hummed and leaned back in his chair. "Sir Vidor, good sword, very tenacious, if I recall. Didn't he track down that wild boar when everyone else had given up for the night?"

"Yes, sire. It's the largest one yet this year. Took two spears to bring it down."

"Nearly got himself killed. He's very young, Leon. Impulsive. He has to be able to make wise decisions at critical moments and the men must trust him. I'm afraid I don't think he's up to the task. At least not yet."

"Percival, then."

"Percival?" Arthur's guffaw was loud and hearty. "That man attracts women like ants to a picnic. He'll be married soon enough."

"Sir Hugh?"

Arthur waved a dismissive hand. "Leon, Percival is a fine choice. My first, actually. How would you gauge the noble knights' reaction to following a commoner?"

"'Nobility is defined by what you do, not who you are.' He has proven his worth and valor, and whether they are agreeable to your decision is of little consequence. Your word is law."

Arthur remembered those very words Gwaine had used in his own defense against "noble" thugs once. They proved wise then as they did now. "I will lose an edge without you, Leon. Do you see why I need you?"

"My children need me more. Sire, Percival has true leadership qualities that I'm sure you will find invaluable, and his counsel is equally trustworthy."

"I am aware," the king agreed, studying the man for a moment. "Leon, you could always remain here with your family. I could ease your responsibilities, assign a few of them to Percival to allow more time with your children and—"

"My father is old, and I am his only son," Leon interrupted the king's offer. "I wager the manor will be passed on to me soon and I must continue his legacy. I've been too long absent from managing the estate."

Arthur rose from his chair again. "I see. I had to try. Well, consider it as retirement rather than a resignation, huh? The least I can do for your loyalty and service."

Leon managed a weak, but grateful smile. A stipend was more than he had expected, but then again, he hadn't had that much time to think about it. "Thank you, sire."

The king thrust out his arm and Leon grasped it. "I will miss your counsel and your sword."

"Likewise, Your Majesty. It's been an honor."

"Farewell, Leon."

They broke their grip and Leon turned to depart as the king watched him go. "Arthur," Leon said, turning to face him once more. "Treasure what you have. While you have it."

Arthur knew exactly what his friend had inferred and he froze only a second before waving him off. "Leon—"

"Mylla had the most alluring eyes," he stated suddenly, again silencing Arthur, his gaze haunted and staring right through the king. "Yet, I never told her that, not once in all the years we were married. I never told her a lot of things. I could never look beyond her arrogance to appreciate her other qualities. We were barely amicable when we were around each other though now, I think she had tried." The knight's knees suddenly buckled but he managed to catch himself on the king's table. Arthur was beside him immediately, supporting him with an arm across the back even as he tried to ward the king off.

"Sit, Leon," Arthur said, pulling out the closest chair and practically shoving the man in it.

"I'm fine, sire," he said, though his head was in his hand and his fingers massaged his forehead.

"The hell you are." Arthur took two steps to reach a pitcher centered on the table and poured watered-down wine into one of the goblets. Handing it to Leon, he encouraged him to drink with a nod of his head. It wasn't strong, but it would calm him a little. He took a drink, Arthur noticing the slight tremor in the knight's hand.

After a moment, Leon stared up at the king with a glazed look in his eyes. "I've always admired you for your bravery, Arthur, yet your boldest actions had been your affections for a commoner. I envied you. It was something that Mylla and I never had, and never will now. You must forgive her. If you love Gwen, you must set your pride aside and tell her before it is too late."

Arthur lowered his eyes remembering Guinevere's spectacular kiss and its stunning effect on him before the battle, knowing that something inside of him pronounced her innocence and he had known then that it was he who needed forgiveness.

"I know."

…..

Pigeons and doves were released and heralds were dispatched throughout the kingdom and the realm to spread the word. King Arthur was victorious over Morgana and the Southrons and had reclaimed his throne. It was the only fanfare that Arthur would allow, too few resources available after Morgana's ruinous reign. What food and supplies they had left was inventoried and distributed to the masses, leaving very little for lavish celebrations. That was until his allies had insisted upon one and contributed all the food and supplies for the making of a modest, yet appreciated feast.

Arthur hadn't had a moment to himself since his victory, the king constantly flocked by knights, advisors, or council members as he made assessments around the castle, read and received reports in his privy chambers, and met with the grief-stricken Leon. He later received Queen Annis and the four kings and thanked them for their aid, their contributions before and during the war a major factor in the heightened confidence of his warriors. His pulling Excalibur from the stone and then wielding it above their heads before charging into battle was no small feat either and certainly played its part on their collective consciousness that losing was not an option. He would never forget that moment, truly believing it, too. Now, his allies would rejoice with them for a well-earned celebration for all.

Now, however, no sooner had the small council of village leaders left his privy chambers had the guards arrived to escort him to the Great Hall, announcing that the assembly was ready to receive him. Arranged in a horseshoe shape of tables for royalty and nobles, Arthur opened the proceedings to all, including standing room on the narrow balcony that stretched the length of the room. It was a meeting to discuss the Southron prisoners, and the king thought it pertinent to allow as many of his citizens to attend as could fit into it. His people had every right to know what he would do with their enemy, though Arthur didn't like the options that were already racing through his mind.

The corridors grew denser the closer he came to the Great Hall though somehow the people managed to make enough room for the king and the two flanking guards to walk unobstructed through them. Everyone rose when he entered the hall and Arthur continued his stride to the high chair centered between the other monarchs, making eye contact with none until he turned and faced the masses. His gaze fell over them in a slow progression around the room, the face of a noble, but solemn king about to address his subjects.

"The war is won. We have defeated our enemies once again. In a span of two short years, twice—no, thrice, have you fought for the love of Camelot, but at a great cost to our kingdom. You have lost lands and property. Some of you have suffered the greatest loss of all, and my heart grieves with you. This is your home; you have the right to live in peace. And you have fought hard for that peace with unfailing loyalty in those dark times. Yet, we have endured and shall remember this day in honor of the sacrifices of our fallen.

"Our kingdom has been plagued with traitors plotting the destruction of our way of life for many years. It is all the more treacherous when your enemy is a trusted member of the court or a beloved member of the family. My family has harmed this kingdom more than any other has. With the deepest humility, I vow to you that it stops here. Today.

"Some of you may have heard rumor that the Lady Morgana escaped in a cloud of smoke. Let me assure you now that she has been captured and is being held in the dungeons. She, and what is left of her army, will be held accountable for what they have done. I give you my word she will pose no further threat to our kingdom."

A heartbeat later, the herald cried out, "Long live the king." The assembly's chant was loud and prideful. The king seated himself after a moment, his chin not as high as one would have thought. It was his father's daughter, after all, that he'd just publically condemned.

Those in the Great Hall who had chairs or benches finally seated themselves. It was crowded, both sides of the tables lined with people except for the high table and all the other space was filled in save the opening in front of the royals. Despite the numbers, an honorable few were noticeably absent to Arthur: his entire inner circle, save Percival. Most prominently missing for him was Gwen and he had never felt so alone in so crowded a room. It was less than four hours after the battle, and he had been granted only one glimpse of her offering heartfelt compassion to a wounded soldier in the infirmary though she had not seen him standing there. He'd been without her too long already and was determined to talk to her soon. There were so many things left to do, yet the most important one was the much-needed talk with Guinevere.

Percival worked his way from behind the king and emerged between the tables that separated the royalty from the nobility and came to stand in the middle, several scrolls in his large hand.

"Sir Percival," Arthur asked. "How many prisoners have been captured?"

The crinkle of parchment was near the only sound in the room as the knight unfurled the scrolls before scanning it. "There are two thousand three hundred eighty-seven enemy soldiers, Your Majesty." Tallied from accounts received from the other kingdoms in the capture of fleeing Southrons and those defeated within the castle, Percival read the numbers without any judgemental inflections. He flipped through a few of the papers. "There's another four hundred and two family members, servants, and slaves."

Those numbers were even surprising to Arthur though he kept his expression passive. He wasn't usually faced with this kind of problem. After the last invasion, Morgause's immortal army simply vanished once their cursed blood was emptied from the Cup of Life. There had been no need for food, or water, or rest for them, though there had been a few Escetirian servants to care for Morgause, the only mortals captured after her defeat. Under normal circumstances, prisoners of war were usually ransomed, especially if they were high-born. But these were mostly sell-swords, mercenaries organized by a warlord from the warm southlands who probably had no home, kingdom, or liege-lord to be exchanged for coin. This war-party had families.

"How many officers?" Arthur asked.

"Over three hundred, sire."

"Nobility?" King Olaf wanted to know.

"Um…" Percival flipped through more parchment. "Ninety-two claim to be, a few from our very kingdoms." There was a collective gasp in the room, yet Arthur admired his new First Knight's cool candor.

"Well, those from mine will hang," Olaf growled, his voice as gravelly as it was haughty. No one fought under an invader's banner unless they were bribed, had a grudge, or simply one to make foolhardy decisions. Either reason, it was treason.

"Along with every officer," Bayard added.

"Your majesties," Percival said. "A fair number of these men and a quarter of the soldiers were kidnapped and forced to fight against their will. They were under a spell."

Arthur said, "If the spell has worn its course, then these men shall be held blameless. I cannot condone the use of sorcery to remove the curse if not, so find another way. As for the Southron families, their children, that is a different matter." In the heat of battle, none of the Southrons had mattered to him, all were cast from the same mold and deserved the same retribution regardless of their innocence. Now, having seen the broken and terrified families and other non-combatants rounded up in his courtyard and separated from their loved ones, he wasn't sure he'd made a fair assessment. All he knew was that they could not remain in his kingdom. "What shall you have me do with them?"

"Arthur," Annis said. "Each of our kingdoms has agreed to buy some of the prisoners. I, for one, do not condone forced labor, but under these circumstances, with these numbers, I don't think we can avoid it."

"Fodder for the mines," Olaf said with a gruff. "It's either that or death."

"Your Majesty," Lord Gregory said. "Our kingdom has suffered much from these parasites, our lands between here and Longstead ravaged. Nine towns they have destroyed, not to mention three of your lordships. Since the beginning of this war, our dead number near a thousand."

Arthur had seen those reports which had been stacked in Morgana's chambers and brought to him afterward. Had she mourned the loss of her people as he had when he read those statistics? Will she lament for some of the lords and ladies she'd known that were killed during her siege? Probably not. If she did not care for her own family, then why would she care for someone less than? Still, could he trade the living for those already dead? Could he pay such a price for vengeance?

"What are you suggesting, Lord Gregory?"

"Merely that we consider how profitable it would be to sell them all."

"Into slavery?"

"It is the only way to manage such large numbers, sire. We are faced with hard times and we will need revenue. Keeping them will cause a greater strain on our economy, communities, and citizens, and likely disenchant the populace. They are the enemy, sire. Allowing them to fester in little pockets across the kingdom is a prelude to disaster. They could one day rise up against us."

How foolish he was to think that the captives would have had the hard choice to make when in fact, it was he who would have to decide the fate of thousands. Enslavement or death. No quarter. The choices were not palatable to Arthur.

The king had lost track of time and did not know how much longer they debated the issue before a disturbance at the back of the hall made all eyes turn toward the wide open doors and three of Bayard's knights entered, pushing through the crowd to make their way down the long stretch to the royals. A hint of desperation was in the Mercians' eyes as they came to bow before the head table, their brows drawn taut with brooding dread.

"Your Majesties."

"What is it?" the king of Mercia asked brusquely, still irritated with Arthur's reluctance to make the hard choices, though his discerning eyes read the uneasiness in his knights' with caution and he turned his attention on them.

"Sire, a small white dragon was captured in the forest." The collective gasp of terror swept through the Great Hall as Arthur and many others froze in their seats while some practically jumped out of them. The uproar was deafening, and on reflex, Arthur placed a hand on the calming steel of Excalibur.

"Kill it," Bayard commanded as if he shouldn't have had to give such an order.

"Wait," Arthur countermanded barely without thinking, pinning the older king with a hard stare, his blue eyes more piercing than the other's before sliding his gaze back to the Mercian knights. Dragons hadn't been seen since he battled the great one four years ago when he had mortally wounded it and it had flown off to die. Apparently, he had not killed the last and more were safety breeding elsewhere. His hand still on Excalibur, Arthur remembered the images of dragons roaming freely, living peaceably amongst them. Whether it had been a glimpse of the future or a reminder of the long past, he knew they posed no threat. "Where is this creature?"

"It escaped, sire," he said with nervous tension. "A much larger dragon rescued it, killing the patrol that was returning it to the camp." Arthur groaned as the alarm in the room rose to frenetic levels that the hairs on his neck stood up.

"There are two of them," another one said, stating the obvious.

Bayard rose and leaned over the table, his face as taut as his words. "Take some men and hunt them down."

"Right away, sire." With a bow and an about face, they made to depart but halted at Arthur's next words.

"Good luck in your search of flying creatures who do no wish to be found." Arthur was defending the dragons and he knew that all eyes on him were akin to shock, confusion, or downright horror. Arthur had mastered the art of persuasion even if he did not believe the cause himself. Yet this one he did, however. "My people and I have suffered first hand the terror of a dragon attack, and know the difficulties of vanquishing it. Do you think a few men can conquer one, let alone two, without a Dragonlord? It is a futile waste of men and resources to do this without planning and strategy."

"What would you have us do, then, _King_ Arthur?"

"It's been four years since the attack on Camelot," Gregory reminded them all. "There's been no word of dragons since, though we may want to look into the reported incidents of missing livestock now. It could be they pose no further harm to humans." Thank heaven for another reasonable soul in the room, and Arthur sent a nearly imperceptible, yet appreciative, nod his way.

"No threat, say you?" Bayard spat. "What of my men?"

"It was protecting its own," Arthur replied tightly. He was a hunter and knew the difference between predatory attacks and ones of defensiveness; and with Excalibur, he'd been granted a new and challenging opportunity to be less reactionary and more open-minded, tolerant while holding fast to his own instinctual wariness. Now presented the time to openly consider other ways. Now began the eclipse of change, of upheaval of traditions, and God, he wished Gwen and Merlin were there with him. He could use an encouraging face right now even if one of them was as likely to spout nonsense as he was to pronounce wisdom. The youngest monarch leaned forward in his seat and laced his fingers, his thoughts honing in on a more important thing: they were judging him; not just the royalty, but the people. His youth, his inexperience, his convictions were all being tested right now. "Which way were they heading?"

"South, southwest, my lord."

"Send word to the lookouts, garrisons in the southwest and throughout the kingdoms of Gawant and Dyfed, with your permission, of course, my lords Godfrey and Olaf. If they are spotted again, perhaps we can track them by sight using sentinels. With time and vigilance, we may be able to pinpoint their lair." It would also buy him time to devise a reasonable resolution that would satisfy them all should they find their den, though what that solution could possibly be he fathomed no idea. Godfrey nodded with approval almost immediately whereby Olaf's came reluctantly, but it came.

"Very good," Arthur said. "That is all for now." Rising, his gaze swept the crowd before glancing at the monarchs on his left and right, who stood after waiting for the sovereign king to do so. "My lords, and lady, the castle is in no condition to receive you. I suggest your camps will better serve you for a time until the feast made possible by your generous contributions commences. For all of Camelot, I thank you."

The king had taken only a few steps before Percival dutifully asked, "Your Highness, the prisoners?"

The chatter in the room stopped and all eyes turned to see the king pause and set his jaw before he replied, "Sort them out, Percival. If the cursed soldiers cannot be helped, then execute them along with the officers and the beserkers in two days." He had promised his people vengeance and he had to deliver. "Sell the rest." His displeasure turned slightly bitter toward Annis and the other monarchs. "Do with them as you will."

…..

Arthur sought out Gwen right after the assembly, and not finding her with the few remaining healers in the hospital had made his mood sink a little lower, but he'd left it, fatigue suddenly deciding to wrestle with him and his body growing weary. He strode toward the royal chambers, certain he would see her later that night at the feast, and that promise lifted his spirits somewhat.

In his ransacked quarters, he didn't need Merlin to help him shimmy out of his chainmail and other light armor. It was just good fun harassing the servant and having him believe that he did. However, George would not have any display of independence from the king. It was his job to disrobe his master, and he proceeded to unbuckle, unstrap, and yank the metal off the king with proud, yet dizzying efficiency. After serving a light meal, preparing a bath, and setting out the king's sleepwear, Arthur dismissed the servant with an order to help out where ever else he was needed despite the man's irresistible desire to put to order his vandalized chambers. Arthur assured him that he could take care of himself for the rest of the afternoon and that he would work around the mess in his rooms.

The meal was appetizing, the bath soothing, but his bed was absolutely heavenly. Soft fluffy pillows and a thick firm mattress had never felt so dreamy. It was the first time in more than a week that Arthur had slept in a decent bed, not ashamed at all to covet the comfort of such a lavished thing. Two hours past midday, and he had only one more of those to catch some much-needed rest before the banquet began. He recognized that part of the castle was still in recovery mode, while the rest, those who had been temporarily displaced like he'd been, was likely finding sleep themselves. And he hoped that Gwen was too.

Guinevere.

Honor and propriety had no place in his dreams when fatigue was in command, and things played out inappropriately in his seduction of Gwen in the Royal Gardens, or the library, or his chamber bed, both doing things to each other without inhibition, reaching heights of extreme ecstasy in the climax of their lovemaking.

"Gwen," he whispered, squeezing the pillow in his arms.

"No, it's just me," Merlin said, opening the drapes for daylight to shock Arthur awake and dash his fantasies away. "You've got just enough time to tidy up and dress for the banquet. Nice dream, eh?"

"Shut up, Merlin." He groaned, the dream already gone from his memory though he wondered just what it was that Merlin heard him saying in his sleep.

…..

The king of Camelot gave a much shorter speech at the commencement of the festivities and rather enjoyed himself for a while in anticipation of Gwen's arrival. When he finally realized that she was not going to attend, the rest of his evening turned as dismal as the rain that had started to fall outside despite the jubilant vibrations in the Great Hall.

He could not blame her, actually. Despite her valiant contributions to the battle: fighting alongside the king himself, defeating and capturing Morgana, and then caring for the wounded thereafter, perhaps she felt that good deeds would not change the hearts and minds of her critics. Perhaps, she was preparing to leave, and he panicked a moment before thinking it unlikely that she would depart tonight with the weather turned unpleasant.

Still, Arthur felt that she deserved to celebrate, and ordered Merlin to take her a hearty meal, some wine, a bouquet of flowers, and a message that he would visit her soon. Just as the smiling servant hurried off, the king noticed that someone else was missing.

Fredrick wasn't there either.

" _Merlin!_ " he bellowed. When the baffled, yet exasperated servant returned, Arthur mumbled, "Just tell her 'Thank you' and that I hope she sleeps well tonight."

…..

A/N: Rulers of the other kingdoms: Rodor of Nemeth, Bayard of Mercia, Godwin of Gawant, Olaf of Dyfed, and of course, Annis of Gwynedd.


	19. The Parts We Play

**A/N:** It's been a while since we've heard from the High Priestess, so let's see what she has to say. Also, I hope you enjoy a long awaited scene. Much love to KIMMIKY for adding some spice. She has been missed those last few chapters. And Merlin, IDO it, but still wishing I did.

Chapter 19 The Parts We Play

"Hello, Morgana."

A few hours before dawn, Arthur received word that Morgana was stirring, the last dose of belladonna finally wearing off. He wanted to be there when she woke, when she discovered where she was, to tell her himself what awaited her. A spiked bracelet engraved with archaic runes was now clasped on her forearm and locked by blood. His blood, and only he could release her from its bonds.

Morgana sat on the cot, her head buried in her hands, wild hair spilling down her arms. She raised her head at his final approach on the other side of her cell bars with a group of faces known and unknown to her. Bloodshot eyes, haunted and confused, met his before the moment passed and the coldness returned upon recognition. She pulled herself to her feet with as much grace as her weakness would allow, slightly swaying in the balancing of her stance.

"I knew you had it in you, Arthur," she said with sarcastic pride, coming to stand before the rods of iron separating her from freedom. "Uther would be proud of you." She presented her arm to him, tracks of crimson seeping from under the silver band, her lips twitching to force a crooked smile. "The Hades Lock. Ancients told that no matter how powerful you were, once Hades put his hold on you, there was no escape from his realm unless he allowed it. I assume your blood sealed it." Arthur crossed his arms and nodded once, determined not to rise to the bait she dangled verbally in front of him. It had been like this between them since they were children and it brought a pang to realize just how much and at the same time how little their interactions had changed. "How do you like your handiwork?"

The blood had startled him, seeing it on her arm, but he'd kept his shock to himself, the mask so securely in place so to not grant her any satisfaction of detecting a weakness on his part. The spikes had been topside of the bracelet when they'd clamped it on her, yet none of them had known the other end would gradually descend into the flesh. Either she'd tried to remove it physically or with magic, it had responded ruthlessly with a biting grip of iron that he could now see clearly.

"That's no comparison to what you've done to so many...Sister." It was a cold, hard blow and it was from the heart. He had closed off all feelings he had for Morgana and was now dealing with absolutes as she had been known to do. But this time, magic was not being charged as an offense, nor she for being a witch. This was for her actions resulting in invasion and the deaths of hundreds. Treason against the crown was her crime. "It did not have to come to this."

The pain in her arm was forgotten when he'd said those stinging words, him calling her sister for the first time, her bitterness dissolving from her eyes and her expression, the reality of each word hitting true. Once Morgause had come into her life, she'd embraced her half-sister's risky schemes for power, plotted and murdered without question as to the consequences. Her compassion giving way in the face of how _**good**_ it felt to fight back, she'd stepped over that line between justice and contemptible betrayal, not looking back and relishing every moment for the revenge she felt she deserved, for all that she had suffered. Morgause had turned her head. Set her magic and her fury against her family and friends, and then her kingdom, feeding her hunger and warping what had once been real love and respect. There had always been choices, hers was one of vengeance and the reach for supreme power. And for what? Look at all she'd done. Look at where it had gotten her, sitting in a cell awaiting a fate that was as inevitable as death itself.

Morgana shook her head, the lingering haze of the belladonna drug cutting through her years of hatred. How long had it been since any thought of her former friends resulted in guilt? She had believed all finer feeling toward them had burned away in the fires of her righteousness. But here she stood, amongst the wreckage of her crusade, the tide turned against her and she could expect no mercy. She would be the very last high priestess; there were none alive now who could take up the mantle after she passed. The last of her kind. That thought resonated with her, her unfulfilled destiny, the will of the Triple Goddess unsatisfied, fading like an echo down a deep dark well, and all memories of her deeds would fade into nothing like it.

She looked beyond the king to the muster of knights and guards there to protect their perfect sovereign. Merlin was there, too, and they caught each other's gaze for a glance far too long for social standards, both feeling that strongest of connection which had been there from the start and refused to go away. He had been a strange one, indeed, to Morgana. So much passion and conviction in that lean but solid frame, so much wisdom and hope within those compassionate deep blue eyes, a man bound tightly with die-hard courage and an unerring thirst for justice. Even his clumsiness was a part of the charm that made him seem a magical creature, though fearsome he could be sometimes. But he'd stopped trusting her once he found out about her abilities, seeing her as the enemy right from the start even though, peculiarly, he may have believed in her cause. He'd been Arthur's servant for many years, yet oddly, he had not seemed in line with the idiot's beliefs about sorcery.

"Magic must be free," she said, sliding her gaze back to the king. "That's what I really wanted." That last self-indulgent lie falling from her lips with the ease of long practice. It had never been all she had wanted. Could her selfish aims have caused the Triple Goddess to abandon her and her destiny, Morgana now wondered. Should she have been training initiates to learn the craft, to grow their numbers, to use magic for other means? For the first time in a very long while, Morgana felt truly isolated.

"And my death. My throne," Arthur added with just a pinch of salt rubbed into the raw, aching wound. "I would have _**given**_ Camelot to you to prevent the atrocities of these last few years. With Guinevere at my side, I would have trusted in your good judgment to take care of the kingdom in our absence before all—this. You know that could have been one of our options. We could have…found another way." Another echo of words thrown at her by another source before it all fell apart, before her betrayal had been fully known. She couldn't help finding Merlin again.

He'd pleaded with her to stop the madness after she'd set the Rowan Staff to raise the dead and then sent them forward to raze from within while Cenred and Morgause bore down the gates. He'd said there were options, too, but she was too ambitious to listen then, too wound up in her own concern with none left for anyone else. Merlin had always believed that she was the hope to changing Uther's mind. She could have been the one to set things right for those like her in a benevolent kind of way. Yet, she could not alter the path she'd chosen not even if she had wanted to. She had been mired too deep, even then.

She looked back to Arthur. "And Uther? He would never have listened to either of us. He would have executed me." She believed what she said, believed she was driven down this course, her whole reasoning based on this truth. Arthur remained stoic throughout, not sharing anything of what he thought of her or her excuses.

"I'm king now. I can only answer for myself, yet you never even thought to give me the chance."

She shrugged, what was done was done, and no mere words could undo the past. "So, _King Arthur_. What is to be done with me, then?"

"Your crimes against me I could have, perhaps, forgiven." Morgana made a sound somewhere between a sob and a scoff which Arthur ignored. "But my people? All the citizens of Camelot? You held no thought for their welfare, their safety, or their future. No, Morgana. This isn't about magic or sorcery."

"You hypocrite," she snarled, thrusting her arm out for view. "Isn't it?"

"You have stooped much lower, Morgana." Arthur's voice had dropped so deeply that Morgana clamped her mouth shut and glared at him with sullen eyes. "Your bindings are for the safety of us all and you would do no less." Brother and sister glared at each other as they fought with their inner demons. Both of them faced a dismal future. "You are guilty of high treason, no more. You will be brought before the court tomorrow and then face the executioner thereafter."

It would be a sword and a beheading; he could allow her that one small mercy, a quick death, relatively painless. It was that or the pyre, and Arthur was sure he could not stand there and watch his sister scream in tortuous agony as cloth, hair, and flesh was viciously licked away by the flame until the smoke slowly smothered her. It was a horrid way to die. He preferred killing his enemies swiftly instead of leaving them to the torture of a lingering death. That had been his father's domain, to relish and perhaps even enjoy watching the ends of those who opposed him. Still, either choice was a sad and lowly way for a once beautiful and noble lady.

"That should give you great pleasure, then, dear Brother. Will Helios die beside me?" How wrong she was. There was never any pleasure to be had in the wanton loss of life. It just showed how little she truly knew him if that was what she believed him capable.

"He's dead. I killed him."

What little arrogance that held her together slipped slowly from her features. There had been no real feeling for the man. He'd been a mere means to a long desired end, and yet to hear of her ally laid cold upon the ground with such dismissal flayed her already battered ego. The glint in her eyes dimmed somewhat but did not die completely. Not yet. "I have other more powerful friends, Arthur. My sorcerers…."

"Are all dead, except for one. But do not find hope in rescue from him. He's fled like the coward he is, and we'll capture him soon enough." Arthur looked at her intently for a moment, his arms falling to his sides, his brow creased with a seriousness above eyes that said he'd had enough; that her time had come and gone. "I will take no pleasure in seeing you dead, Morgana. But it ends here. You will take no more innocent lives whilst I have breath to prevent it."

He'd backed her into a corner, caged her like an animal, and poised victoriously for the final strike. She had no defenses, no allies, nowhere left to run. He'd won and that peasant would reign beside him. But just as a wolf still snarling and snapping at those who would surround it, never realizing the futility of such a gesture, Morgana fought back the only way she knew how.

"Innocent were they? They stood by and did nothing while true innocents were persecuted. They were certainly not blameless and yet you would defend them and prosecute me?" She scoffed. "Here's to your guiltless puppets. Let us see what your grateful subjects make of a barren leader! I curse you, Arthur Pendragon." The spikes in the bracelet bit ever further into her forearm with an audible shift of metal against metal and Morgana gasped in renewed pain as fresh blood welled, her hand moving instinctively to caress the injured limb.

"Morgana, don't," Merlin pleaded.

"As long as magic is outlawed," she continued, "you will never have an heir." The fresh blood seeped from beneath the cold silver as the metal bore deeper, leaving darker smears upon her darker dress and Merlin looking on couldn't help but compare the image to Morgana's soul and then wondered how her aura appeared if she had one now at all.

Morgana clenched her teeth and pressed on, savoring Arthur's growing horror as perspiration beaded her forehead despite the coldness of the cell. Her voice came ever more gravelly as if she were an old woman well past her prime rather than her true age. "I curse your bloodline. _Ah-!_ " The High Priestess collapsed onto her hands and knees gasping for air, her tattered dress a heap of pooling black on the floor. Yet she managed to hold her head up once more, fire and vengeance twisting her face into a parody fighting to stay conscious even as the last of the curse crossed her lips. "Your seed…is empty." There was time for only one last look at the king's terrible visage, a sense of victory engulfed her as she lost her tenuous hold on reality and went limp.

It was an awful thing to wish for any man, let alone a young king whose legacy rested upon heirs. Morgana always had known how to wound with words more thoroughly than most. Merlin exchanged a resigned look with Maxwell before landing his gaze on Arthur, who had turned worried eyes upon him and searching for an assurance, wondering with not a little trepidation, if the curse was at all effective or if as was supposed to happen, was blocked by the bracelet's power. Having seen it do its gruesome work as Morgana forced out the curse, the warlock held few doubts that it had bound her magic as it should. But Arthur needed more reassurance, even a little doubt was too much, and Merlin hastened to restore hope to his king.

"They're just words now, Arthur." He'd missed the king's speech yesterday searching for the bracelet itself, and then the time it had taken for Maxwell, Gaius, and himself to figure out its properties he'd missed the part about the dragons, too. He and Gaius had also brewed a magical potion to release the cursed soldiers from Morgana's spell, thereby saving more lives, yet keeping him from Arthur's side those many hours after the battle. It had been worth it now to know with certainty Morgana hadn't irretrievably harmed them and that her magic was securely bound. He nodded, just a quick bob of his head really, but for Arthur, it was usually enough. "They can't hurt you."

Arthur was not entirely convinced, his hand on Excalibur and nary a sign to guarantee her words had not taken root. His father's daughter. His half-sister. She had caused so much misery for so many years and though his heart no longer ached to try and redeem her, to bring back the girl he grew up with, the one he'd laughed, fought and played with, he knew this had gone too far. His people would not allow for mercy, though, too much had been done to them by her to allow for any softer feeling. Tomorrow he would put an end to it in final brutal form. With his death decree and her vindictive curse, would Uther, indeed, be proud of his children?

…..

Arthur's journey from the bowels of the castle to its hollow halls above was bleak, the pounding of woodworking in the courtyard growing louder with every step. The gallows were going up and rows of hanging men with bloated and grotesque faces would soon line the streets they'd once tramped in their victory. The highest-ranking officers would face the firing squad, however, while the berserkers met the axe. It would be a full-fledged spectacle of unmitigated carnage, yet it would show that he meant business.

He remembered Merlin advocating mercy and compassion when faced with the choice of what to do with Caerleon. A hard won lesson to be sure, but there was no place for such finer emotions here in the face of such brutality.

This was war and executing only a few would not quench the thirst for justice his people felt owed, not after all the unmerciful things they'd done to them and their kingdom. His citizens could rise up against him if he seemed too soft, not to mention his enemies lurking and waiting to exploit a weakness and tear him down again; even the fealty of some of his allies could turn tenuous if they did not find confidence in his authority. No. This was the one time when such a message _**had**_ to be sent. He had to keep his word. It was time that he grew up.

Less than three hundred would be executed save the number of cursed soldiers that Merlin, Sir Maxwell, and Gaius claimed could be cured with a foul, yet strangely convenient concoction, so some lives may be spared at least. But the mob would be sated within the first few days of executions if not sickened by the end of it and it would start with the death of Morgana. The collective psyche of Camelot may change forever after this. Would they rejoice when so powerful a threat was eliminated at last, or would her death upset a balance? There were dark days ahead for him because of these hard choices, decisions that would haunt him for the rest of his life, but for the first time in his reign as king, he chose not to face them alone.

Arthur sighed heavily, the similarity of his ransacked castle to the state of his life not lost on him. Everyone close to his heart had broken it, taking a piece of it with every bitter betrayal, leaving only a dried and shriveled pit in its place. Then there was Guinevere, a ray of hope in his dismal existence, for she alone could pump life back into one so void of love. Yet, was she so far out of reach that there was little chance of grabbing hold of her again?

Camelot would always be his first love, and was now back in his care again. There was a time when the kingdom's safety and security were all consuming for the prince and future king, hardly ever finding distraction in the warmth of a woman and grateful his father had not pushed harder on finding what he deemed a suitable match for him. With Arthur constantly defending against one threat after another crashing at the gates, there was hardly any time for courtship. Besides, he suspected that most of the royalty did not want to put their precious princesses in harm's way given that Camelot seemed a magnet for attacks and invasions.

When he'd come of age, however, he turned a curious eye to a humble handmaiden who'd given him something that no other person had the courage to do (other than Merlin, who'd been irrepressibly unruly since the day they'd met): douse him with an unexpected dose of humility. He found that he liked it just as much when she did it a second time. Goodness! The woman's head barely reached his shoulders, but sometimes she made him feel as small as a four-year-old because he certainly had behaved like one from time to time. She'd unraveled that first layer of defense so long ago and helped mold him into a better person, making him aware of what it meant to be sovereign to the everyman, them falling in love each step of the way.

Guinevere had become his world, and though he still fought tooth and nail for his beloved Camelot, it had darkened and turned meaningless without her there. He was as barren inside as the castle had become even though it teemed daily with people about. He was hollowed out despite the presence of a heart that had no will to beat and lungs too weak to breathe, these last few months dulled with conflicting thoughts spent wearing him down with doubt and denial about her. He could no longer care for Camelot the way it should be if Gwen was not a part of it. Brick and mortar meant less to him if she did not forgive that one fateful decision that sent her away in the first place. For if she did not, then Morgana's curse could likely come to pass. He did not want to think of life without the true heart of Camelot securely at his breast.

Seeing Fredrick outside his chamber door lifted his spirits slightly, having him there could mean only one thing: Gwen was on the other side and seeing her was the breath of fresh air he needed after his encounter with Morgana and witnessing that blasted curse. The soldier had not left Gwen's side since order was restored, a shadow to her from daybreak to dusk it seemed. Arthur was glad for that. It would not be an easy transition for Gwen to resume a life he had ripped from her, and she would need friends she trusted. That was if she wanted to stay. He could not help but think her trust for him was dented at the very least, if not gone altogether.

He hummed thoughtfully to himself the closer he came to the door. He wasn't sure if he was hearing the pounding of his heart in his ears or the pounding of wood outside their rhythm so exact. This was to be that talk he'd promised they'd have, something that needed to be done before either of them could move forward with their lives, lives of a future together he so desperately hoped. The tall soldier lowered his head as the king passed though there was still a slight determination in his jaw that stated he would come to Guinevere's defense again even if it meant another pounding from his king like the one in the wood.

Arthur's chambers were no exception to the destruction wrought on the rest of the castle, a mess of broken wood and glass, overturned furniture, and shattered things that had once meant something to him. What meant most to him now was the woman setting a chair upright, dressed in a servant's blue dress yet more radiant than any noble lady in silk or satin. Gwen greeted him with a rueful smile when she noticed him in the doorway, lighting up the room as much as it did his heart. It was the first time he'd actually talked with her since that magnificent kiss before the battle. That seemed like so long ago.

"It's going to take some time," she said, her eyes sweeping subtly over him. She loved that red shirt he was wearing, its richness accentuating his blue eyes and pale skin, his broad shoulders, and slim waist. It was a pleasing combination of wardrobe and man and she missed the scent of him, too.

"Well," Arthur replied lightly, barely noticing the damage once he'd laid eyes upon something so much more important and standing right in front of him. Last night all he'd cared about was his bed after a week in the wild and on the run and less about the state of the rest of his rooms. He did suppose, however, that he'd have to get them organized eventually. "Merlin can take care of it."

She couldn't help the smile that spread to her eyes, amused at the arrogance that came so easily for him. Of course, he would leave it all for poor Merlin to repair and put to order. The man was probably hip deep in other chores the king most likely assigned him, as well as his care of Gaius and serving as acting physician during his recovery. She would lend a hand in the infirmary where help was always needed and perhaps ease a bit of the burden of her overworked friend. Perhaps. There was still the matter of her banishment, Arthur's own decree. Her presence in Camelot was against the law and her betrayal still loomed between them. Gwen's smile waned.

"If you want me to go, to return to Ealdor…"

"I want you to stay." Arthur would not let her finish that statement, stepping closer to her upon seeing the sparkle fade from her eyes. That little smile that she had given him had meant so much. She was his Guinevere for that brief moment and he longed to see it again. "Guinevere…"

"You don't have to say anything."

"Whatever happened between us…"

"Please, Arthur. I can't forgive myself."

"…I don't care," he admitted, unable to take his eyes off hers. "I just don't ever want to lose you." He took her hands. His love for her was stronger than he'd let known and it was far time that he showed her. "Will you marry me?" he asked.

Looking at him now, his eyes shining with hope, she desired that more than anything. "All I've ever wanted was to marry you, Arthur, to be your wife. You mean everything to me." She had said those words before to her defense and Arthur's lips curled into a frown, the spark in his eyes dying. He remembered them, too.

Gwen could see through the illusion he wanted to create, a love fragile built on doubt, and slowly withdrew her hands. She would always be cautious of what she'd say, or what she'd do in case he saw something to provoke his temper once more. Afraid that no matter what she did, he would always remember her betrayal and use it against her. "How can you ever trust me after what I did? It's folly to believe you could forgive me for that without good reason."

"That wasn't you, Guinevere," he stated matter-of-factly although it had taken Excalibur's help to believe that truly. "It's not in your character to behave like so."

"That didn't seem to matter to you at the time." If her words had been darts, his heart would have burst from the precision of her aim.

Arthur moaned as he closed his eyes and shook his head. He had been a feral boar. "I was blind with jealousy. With…duty. I made a mistake."

"As did I," she admitted, her regret as deep as his seemed to be. "After all that has happened, after all that's been said, I don't think we can ever have what we had before."

Another dart pierced his heart and it nearly ruptured in his chest then. "Don't say that," he pleaded softly. "We must try. _I_ want to try."

"There will always be doubt, Arthur. I kissed another man and not as I would a brother. I dishonored both of us. Nothing has changed," she said, spinning away from him, wringing her hands together now so that he could not see her fraying nerves. "My betrayal will always come between us no matter what you say or how you think you feel right now. You will never trust me. Not really. How many more acts of jealousy, of mistaken duty will there be? No, Arthur. As much as it hurts not to be with you, I can't live like that."

"You don't have to." Arthur rounded her and took her shoulders gently. "It took me some time to realize it, but I trust you, Guinevere. I never stopped loving you. You must believe me that no matter what I said, what I did, it crushed my very heart with every word and deed. When you were gone, I kept asking the question of why I still wanted you. How could I still love someone so deeply who betrayed my trust so utterly?"

"You kept saying that it didn't make sense." Another voice spoke from behind them and Merlin was stood in the doorway, for how long they did not know, but he'd interrupted so private and intimate a conversation that Arthur could barely conceal his agitation, his hands going to his hips and a shuffle to his stance. Why could he not be like any other servant and wait for permission to enter his quarters?

"Merlin, we appreciate you wanting to help, but now is not the time." Honestly, could he not understand how deeply personal this was between Gwen and himself and that he had no business being a part of it? Arthur had thought that since the man was keen on so many other things that he'd have the good sense to know when he was not wanted around. The king looked back at Gwen. "We must work this out ourselves."

"About that, sire, um…I think you'd want to know this." The "sire" did it. Merlin never called him sire with so much respect without very good reason. Glancing over showed his servant with a face devoid of his usual cheer, a sad picture of regret and utterly serious. Gwen turned around in front of Arthur and clasped her hands together, a sign that she was willing to listen to him.

"What is it, then?" he asked with a roll of his eyes.

Merlin held out a gray cloth and peeled back the corners to reveal a circle of chased silver designed for a woman's wrist, delicate and fine. Gwen's eyes began to water and her lips quivered at the sight of the long forgotten bracelet.

"Such pretty packaging fashioned to tear the heart asunder," Merlin whispered, dazed by the magic emanating from it. "You were enchanted, Gwen. A powerful love spell meant to awaken buried or forgotten emotions…for Lancelot."

Gwen gasped and stumbled back into Arthur's chest as he grasped her arms for support, his hands squeezing them more tightly than he should have. She began to tremble, then pressed a fist to her lips and bit down. It had been staring them all in the face from the beginning, so clear, yet all of them conveniently oblivious to the only remaining explanation of why she would betray the man who held her heart.

"I think," Merlin continued softly, "because of your love for Arthur, you broke Morgana's spell in your grief. You, Gwen, have a strength so few of us could ever hope to have."

Gwen tore her haunted eyes from the bracelet and looked at Merlin for a moment before slightly lowering her gaze to pull forth a memory. "It…happened so fast. Lancelot came to my home the day before the wedding…He gave it to me, said it was for good fortune. I didn't want to accept it, but he—he didn't give me a chance to decline, really. He was rather insistent, took my hand, and placed it on my wrist before I had any chance to protest, and I…I was almost immediately attached to it. I wanted to wear it. I remembered my feelings for Arthur for a time, but Lancelot's draw on me was stronger…."

"He was…under Morgana's control—too."

Gwen caught a hard breath before burying her face in a hand and wept softly as Arthur's grip tightened to steady her. He tried to turn her towards him, to hold her in a proper embrace, but she stood firm and cried to herself, finding her own comfort as she had for the last few months alone to the king's dismay. He turned a hardening gaze on Merlin.

It had taken years and a sword, but Arthur read his servant now like the open book Merlin had always claimed to be but had not been for years, and he knew Merlin was leaving something out. Again. "Lancelot died well over a year ago when he sealed the Veil between the worlds of the living and the dead. There is no coming back from such a journey no matter what he told us." He could thank Excalibur for that little tidbit of information. "Who was it then that fooled us all, since he certainly looked and acted as Lancelot enough to pass the scrutiny of everyone?"

Merlin opened his mouth but nothing came out, eyes feral and roving wildly, wishing there was some way for this to be said without causing so much anguish.

Gwen asked through her tears with the merest hint of reproach, a tone he had hoped never to hear directed toward himself, "And how long have you known?"

The two questions he wanted to avoid the most and the groan he gave confirmed that. "Gwen…"

"Just answer the questions, Merlin," Arthur said tightly, sensing something about the sensationalism of what he was about to impart though he couldn't know how bad it really was.

"Morgana…" He swallowed as his voice cracked slightly and tried again, hoping for a better outcome than he suspected would result. "She used magic of the darkest kind, necromancy, to summon his body from the other side. His soul was not—intact." Gwen drew in a shuttering breath, looking horrified. "She…had to re-educate him, but with only the knowledge that she knew of us."

"So she didn't know everything," the king inferred, trying and failing to keep calm in the midst of this raging storm.

"He said some things that did not add up and it made me suspicious."

"What _things_?" The calm was crumbling more with every word the servant uttered. Honestly, he had not spent enough time with Lancelot to discover any oddities, but his knights should have, yet none had said a word.

Merlin's thoughts raced for a reasonable lie. "Things only the real Lancelot and I knew. This one did not." He chose to tell the truth, at least some of it. "I…I wanted to tell you."

"How long have you known?" the king almost spat, knowing he wouldn't like the answer.

"Since…" Merlin looked terrified, hunted even and Arthur tramped down on his instinctive need to take up arms at the threats looming against them. Yet, he and Gwen were in accord, reigning in their fraying tempers to allow him time to speak.

But nothing was coming out, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, lips trembling like a leaf in the wind.

"Merlin…?" Arthur's patience though, already stretched thin, waned first, exasperated at the man's continued reticence. He had come so far. Why would he falter now?

Gwen's voice was soft, her patience faring better than his. "Please tell us."

"I've known since…since the day you left, Gwen." Said with finality tinged with slight shame, but his eyes never left hers and he could see such pain within her brown depths though it did little to lessen her anger at the elapsed time between knowledge and elucidation.

"What?" Gwen could say no more and turned away in shock, and then just as suddenly turned back with hardened resolve. "How could you keep this from us?"

Arthur's anger boiled over, too. "That was over three months ago, _Merlin_."

"I had to first find the bracelet." Merlin spoke faster than he ever had before, the words practically running into each other. "Without any evidence, you know as well as I, you would not have believed me. Agravaine would have made sure of that. He would have twisted every fact and you would have believed him over me." The words, _'You proved that when I accused him of treason and I had been right'_ , hung between them. They didn't need to be said; they were visible for both to see. But though he felt slight guilt at his own part, the fact remained that Merlin should have tried to make an effort for something with this much gravity.

Gwen turned furious, almost vibrating in her anger now. Merlin had never seen her so emotionally compromised and he took an unconscious step back. "So I wasn't important enough to even share your suspicions with the king?"

Merlin grimaced as if she'd just stabbed him with a dagger. She meant the world to him, as much as Arthur. She was the first person to befriend him when he arrived in Camelot and he had gotten into trouble on his very first day. She was the only person who'd shown kindness to him while he was bound in the stocks and his face the target for rotten vegetables. She had called him brave back then. "Gwen, I—"

"You asked me about the bracelet when you found me injured. You knew then and you didn't tell me." She twisted the dagger and dug in deeper, wounding him even further. He tried not to let it get to him. She had just suffered a major blow and didn't…couldn't understand everything he'd tried to do.

Arthur had turned a shocked gaze upon Gwen. _What was she talking about?_ "Injured?" _And Merlin had known? Did Helios hurt her in some kind of way? What had he done to his Guinevere?_ He would kill the damned warlord all over again no matter that he was dead. "What…?"

Gwen ignored the king's concern and walked up to Merlin, all six feet of him so hunched that she could almost meet him eye to eye. "Why didn't you tell me then?"

"I couldn't…without proof." Surely, she understood the position a servant was in when any kind of accusation was made.

"I would have believed you."

His heart crumbled at the conviction of her words, at the fresh tears forming in her eyes. "There was no guarantee I would have found the bracelet at all or found out what enchantment was used. Agravaine and Morgana left no other evidence. They were too thorough." His own dark blue eyes welled in water. "I'm so sorry, Gwen. I didn't want to give you false hope."

Gwen flashed with indignation and raised her palm with lightning speed but did not follow through, her chest heaving with the shuttering of her breaths. Common sense, practicality, and honor combined with her normally naturally kind inclination and she pulled back her hand, shaking her head in disgust. He wasn't worth her loss of self-restraint. Instead, she lifted her chin and delivered a reproach befitting a queen.

"All this time, you knew. You let everyone continue to believe a lie because you didn't want to give us false hope?" The disgust poured out, imbued into every word and she marveled at herself being capable of such vitriol. Was this a product of her time in exile and all that had befallen her? For she could never recall being so furious before. Not even when her father lost his life.

Merlin had never seen her so angry, so far beyond the fierceness she'd displayed when she'd defended him against the Lamia, and that stunned him. "Gwen, please understand…."

"Hope was far from me, but it would have been more than what I had. None of this should have happened. You held our very lives in your hands, Merlin! You held a measure of control over this entire affair!"

"And it haunted me, Gwen." He had found the bracelet about a month ago and yet elected not to tell the king. It would have been a distraction from the imminent war with Morgana and Arthur needed to prepare even though that strategy hadn't quite gone to plan for him. "But I never would have found the bracelet had it not been for you."

"Else I'd still be thought guilty until you saw fit to tell the truth." His platitudes held no weight and made no difference, yet Gwen's queen-like countenance was slipping, the edge of reason giving harsh realism to her unnecessary punishment and the ensuing hardships that should never have come to be. "I was disgraced, Merlin. Falsely accused of something I had no control over. I was thrown out of my home. Everything I loved, everyone I loved was taken from me. My life was in tatters."

Gwen had broken into a shuttering sob by the end of her words, and Arthur pulled her into his arms immediately, offering as much comfort as she would take this time. His part in this was equally offensive and he had less to defend himself.

"That fault rests solely on me," Arthur said. "Merlin, give us a moment. But don't go far. We have a lot more questions."

"Yes, sire." He felt as broken as his words had sounded as he bowed with genuine respect, then took the few steps to the door left ajar, the bracelet still in his hand. He knew it would be hard, but that there was so much more unexplained that would be equally difficult to serve them. He shut the door behind him and looked mournfully up at Fredrick, who stared back at him with hooded eyes. Sometimes lying was just not worth it in the end. This might be the beginnings of losing both his friends.


	20. Not This Time

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to larasmith, the best ARWEN fan ever. Some of her comments have inspired me to look deeper into the hearts of Gwen and Arthur. She's been truly inspirational. Many thanks again to KIMMIKY for being the best beta ever. I'm glad she's mine! LOL! IDO Merlin and TPTB are out of their minds for not bringing it back and letting me have a piece of it. ;-)

…..

Chapter 20 Not This Time

The warmth of Arthur's embrace could not ease Gwen's trembling nor calm the torrent of emotions thundering through her head and heart. She felt the weight of betrayal by all she'd held dear, had forgiven them during her exile, her guilt absolving them for the choices they had made. She was a stuttering mess in his arms and Arthur placed a white handkerchief into her palm, the linen favor she had given him so many years ago once again coming to her aid. She took it gratefully, perhaps not even realizing what it was she held nor its significance to the king. He cherished it as much as her.

"I put too much trust in him," Gwen cried. "Merlin was the only one that saw me off when you—banished me." That stabbed at both their hearts, but she could not stop the flow of words so long not uttered by her. "I will never forgive Morgana for this. _Never!_ But that doesn't change the actions of my friends; those I thought had cared for me. Not even my brother had shown any faith. Everyone had abandoned me. I was alone."

Gwen couldn't find any more words. Her head hurt. Her heart hurt, and stone by stone, a wall rose up around it, her tangled thoughts grabbing hold of her deepest terror and feeding off it. She looked at her once betrothed dazed, almost as if she didn't recognize him, her eyes stinging and vision blurred with the horrible truths now come to bear. "I _am_ alone. I don't think I can trust anyone. Not even you, Arthur." Gwen shouldered herself out of the king's grappling embrace and put some space between them. "You threatened me on pain of death."

The king groaned agonizingly, Gwen's words biting into him like the fangs of a viper, venomous and painful. She must have known that it had not been easy for him to do, none of it. Sentencing her as a commoner and sending her into exile was in his eyes a far better fate than that of a royal to be executed. It was the one thing he'd done right though its consequences were still just as damaging.

"I felt I had no choice." Though that was no real excuse and he winced internally. "I was angry and hurt." And that was hardly better. "I'm sorry."

"No man would have done that to the woman he supposedly loved." She had regained some of her composure, remembering things she dared not think during her exile but now a vital tap for strength and radiating a coolness out through her words.

"I was a fool," Arthur admitted.

"That was no excuse to break the promise you made to me when my father died."

The viper clamped its jaws and released yet more venom, its poison doing its deed all too well to expose his ugly mistakes. It was excruciating, raw. And it hurt. "I said that you would always have a home in Camelot," he murmured as if it were his last dying breath.

"What you did for my father, for me back then, my heart opened for you despite the sorrow in it."*

His father had Thomas killed when the blacksmith had made a desperate attempt to escape from prison and yet she loved him on that same dreadful day. An act of kindness to give her father a decent burial despite the repercussions to himself had Uther found out had meant more to her than he had ever known. The viper would not let him die before taking another vicious chomp out of him. Arthur shuddered. This was worse than he had imagined and made harder when Gwen started to back away from him shaking her head.

"I did nothing wrong," she said, inching further from Arthur. It was cleansing to know this truth at least, and heartbreaking all the same knowing they had not looked deeper into her motives save what they had seen on the surface. The tears that suddenly came released a flood of emotions that washed away the last vestiges of hope in their ever being able to marry. This was not about class barriers standing in the path of their nuptials any longer. It was the broken bonds of trust that should exist between man and woman, husband and wife. Arthur had not trusted her when it had mattered, held so little faith in her character that he had not looked any further than the illusion Morgana had so carefully crafted to tear them both apart. Well, in this instance, the witch had succeeded far too well.

"No," Arthur agreed with heartfelt remorse. He must have seen something of the internal battle on her face and saw himself on the losing side. He let out a shuttering breath, his forward motion to close the gap between them slow and Lancelot became a knight of the Round Table, lived with them over a year, there was never any indication of duplicity from either of them though he'd kept to himself an insecurity that Lancelot was a better man for her than he was. The real Lancelot would not have forsaken her in her greatest time of need. The king stretched a pleading hand out to Gwen, his eyes stinging with rising water. "You did nothing wrong."

Her head was bobbing now, her eyes glazed with pain and remembered fear. "I was alone, and afraid."

Though he knew she had not been alone, Fredrick and Erwan her silent sentries, he did not think it would be prudent to bring that up, for he knew what she truly meant. "You will never be again, Guinevere. I promise. Please. Please forgive me." His hand still stretched for her though he knew what had been done would require far more than a simple expression of sorrow. He hoped she might take it as only the beginnings of his apology. It would help in the journey to forgive himself.

She shook her head. "You put me in harm's way. Bandits. Helios. Morgana, and—and…" Gwen would say no more, pressing fingers against her lips to keep that last hurtful account to herself, tears tracking her cheeks.

Her words were as raw as a wound from a blade and cut him just as deep, drawing blood and seeping the life from him. He could only imagine her horrors and they were all because of their willing blindness. His, Merlin's, everyone who knew her should be apportioned some blame, though he held the lion's share. He'd thrown his love into the wild and made her vulnerable for villains to terrorize. A royal blood would have had adequate protection, so why had he not afforded her more? Arthur was dying all over again.

"I had no way of knowing such tragedy would befall you, Gwen." He agonized at that excuse. It was weak and desperate and he was losing her spectacularly. Why could he not put words to how he truly felt for her, for this situation? He pleaded with his outstretched hand for her to take it. It was all he had the nerve to do. He was an idiot. A fool. A coward.

"You should have. You abandoned me, Arthur." He bit his lip as his arm dropped to his side, his heart a weight in his chest. He could barely look at her, his shame as thick as his guilt.

"I know." It was small and humbling. A tear rolled down his cheek as she dried hers up. "I failed you. I promise I never will again." He finished strong with that last declaration, sincerity filling his voice and his watery eyes.

"I don't think I believe you." The earth must have moved beneath her feet because the king was visibly shaking, more water rolling down his cheeks. Gwen was quaking inwardly, too, surprised by the severity of reproach she delivered with ease, unafraid to speak what she held in her heart. "You've made promises that you had no compunction to break in the heat of the moment. I loved you with all my heart and you could not see that when it really mattered. You hurt me and I can't be with someone I do not trust nor who showed none in me." Gwen seemed to strangle on the next words, but then they came. "Goodbye, Arthur." She turned away from him and without hesitation made to leave, fighting back her own tears and heartbreaking sorrow, walking away from the life she'd dreamt for so long.

In a move of desperation, Arthur pounced and rounded her, blocking her with his body, though not with his hands. "I beg you to give me another chance, Guinevere. It was wrong of me, all of it. Please, don't go." He held little hope of her agreeing but he **had** to try. The humility ringing through his voice didn't seem to be making any dent in the shield she had now erected around her heart, a shield borne of anger and humiliation and disillusionment. The same shield he had erected when she could not explain her actions with Lancelot. He had not given her a chance then when she'd begged him not to banish her, not to leave her nor cast her out. What chance did they have now after all the pain he had caused with his blindness and complete lack of trust? After all the hurtful things he'd slung at her? How could they build a lasting marriage upon such a shattered foundation? "Can we not work through this?"

" _No! We can't!_ " Gwen bristled, recoiling from him as if he were something to be feared. She would not be swayed by this tender side of him, the kind and thoughtful man that she had fallen in love with in the first place. He had been an illusion in the end and she would not be fooled again.

This was not like her. He deserved her resentment, to be despised even, but her guttural rejection startled Arthur, angry and loathsome and tinged with panic. She was terrified of him and that pierced his core. And yet it prickled at his instincts, an alarm that sounded of more to her bitter rejection than what she'd already shared. Something else had happened. Arthur set his jaw and stared her down, determined to root it out.

"We're not going to avoid our problems, Guinevere." It would do neither of them any good to keep everything bottled inside. He moved a little closer, deliberately invading her space and Gwen edged backward, though she was just as defiant, her stare equally as bold. A slow sway began between them as she tried to dodge him left, then another attempt to his right, his body matching her every move to keep his prey pinned down.

"Not this time," Arthur said with cool reliance, still commanding the direction of their dance. "I made a mistake, but I, too, was deceived by those I loved. By those I'd trusted and whose only aim was to tear us apart. You must know we were _both_ pawns, Guinevere. Morgana will pay for what she's done to us. I swear it." He ground his teeth before his jaw relaxed to the working of his trembling lips. "Now tell me. What else did _ **I do**_ that hurt you so?"

She had run out of room, Arthur cornering her against the east wall, towering over her in all his striking manliness, bold and demanding. She could feel his breath on her face, warm and steady; the heat of his body through the thin linen shirt, red and hot. Her legs turned spindly as her body temperature rose, that familiar natural response of pent-up desire and their long separation threatening to weaken her defenses. He could always make her feverish when he was this passionate and daring. Yet, now she could resist his magnetic draw, the recent events reminding her of pain and hurt and taking over once more. Gwen feared to trust in him again.

"It doesn't matter anymore. Now, please stand aside, Arthur." It was a weaker plea this time and tears were on the rise. With a harder attempt to gain her freedom, he allowed Gwen to shuffle past him, but only to reach for her and spin her back to him, taking her arms and roughly drew her closer. Holding her firmly, he bore his piercing sapphires into her shocked and tear-filled eyes. They had been like this before and both of them quaked with exploding emotions.

"Don't do this, Guinevere," he warned in a sharp whisper as she started to weep. "Don't keep this to yourself." Arthur was angry, his irritation fueled by a lesson his father and he had gotten wrong, at himself for all he'd done, and for the wrenching loss of her trust in him. Her pain was hers to own, he understood that, but she did not have to endure it alone. "Heaven knows what you went through, but whatever it was will snare you in an endless, wretched cycle of fear and self-denial and trust me I know what that's like. I've lived it and it's a pitiable existence for anyone. I will _**not**_ let that happen to you. Guinevere…" He gathered her into his arms, and held her tightly, trembling with all conviction. "We must not let them win." He breathed in her ear. "My love, don't let them win."

The maiden had stiffened in his arms for only a moment before she relaxed in spite of herself and leaned into his embrace. Her arms coiled around him slowly, her grip tightening the longer she held on. How she had missed the feel of him and for now, she absorbed his comforting presence, her weeping subsiding enough to squeak out a stream of hurtful memories.

"Morgana enchanted me after I…escaped." Gwen did not want to bring up the events of her captivity by Helios. It would just lead to more dreadful memories and questions that she was not prepared to answer. It was painful enough just speaking about this ordeal.

Arthur's hold on her tightened, one hand on her head and twined in her hair, the other wrapped securely around her. She didn't know that he had knowledge of her enslavement by Helios. That was something, too, they would have to labor through. Right now, it was one difficult step at a time.

"I was trying to get to you, to warn you that the siege tunnel plans had been stolen by Agravaine and given to Morgana and Helios. I was so close to finding you that I could hear the hunting party. But Morgana found me first. She knew, of course, of the traditional hunt and…" Gwen shuddered involuntarily. "She changed me into a—a doe for the sport of it." The king's chest was heaving, his breathing becoming louder in her ears. He knew where this was heading. "I saw you. You were looking right at me. And then…and then…."

"…I almost killed you with a bolt." Horrified by just uttering the words, Arthur slumped in Gwen's arms, his face buried in her soft, fragrant curls that absorbed his tears. Morgana knew how good a shot he usually was with a crossbow and had tried to harm them both without him ever knowing; and though he'd missed the easy target, Mithian had not. Thank God, they had not found that wounded doe or else Guinevere would have been killed, perhaps suspended in that form even unto death, they never knowing her fate…nor what they would have consumed. Arthur felt sick to his stomach, bile choking the breath out of him. It was no wonder now why Merlin had not searched very hard for it, for her, because he had known. And Gwen must have been the source leading to Merlin's accusations about Agravaine and siege tunnel plans. His servant was always in the thick of things and coupled with his disappearing acts and completely ludicrous excuses or explanations, there was a lot the king was now aware that he had not been privy to that demanded explanation. Nonetheless, Arthur was openly gasping sobs now, and he did not care.

"Guinevere…I'm so sorry. I…I-" Instead of stopping the bleeding, he'd opened the wound and the truth further drained him of life. He needed her strength in this moment. Arthur was drowning in his own misguided pride and arrogance that had caused so much pain to the woman he loved and clutched onto her for life. "I will never forgive myself for that." He'd threatened her, cast her aside, and almost carried out her execution himself. Arthur did everything that Morgana had wanted him to do, played right into her hands, a puppet on a string dancing to the whims of his mad half-sister. How had he forgotten how devious she could be? Yet another transgression to add to those littered throughout this whole affair and his were the worst of all. "Can you forgive me?"

It would take much more than words this time to win back her forgiveness and renew her faith in him.** Prying herself from his arms, Gwen stepped back and dotted away the tears with the handkerchief before looking at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks flushed, and lips full, true signs of guilt and sorrow let loose through tears and yet his holding her and not immediately being rebuffed seemed to have sparked a light of hope within him, one she could not fan into flame. It helped so much to let him know the fullness of her pain, her anger and resentment toward him easing somewhat in the telling. It was not all his fault. But she just could not go back to how things were, as if none of the last months had happened.

"I'm sure in time, I will. But right now, time is what I need." She saw that spark dwindle from his eyes until it died altogether, but Gwen held fast to her agonizing decisions, not swayed by the hurt radiating from him.

"Guinevere, I need you. Please don't—" His arm out in entreaty made her take another step back once more.

"It isn't just about you, Arthur. My brother, my friends. I don't know where I fit in any of your lives anymore."

"You belong at my side." _As my Queen_ was left unvoiced but it hung in the air between them, a silent witness to the ashes left behind.

"A few months ago that was true." Gwen was not the woman who had left here broken and despairing to return, though she was possibly just as broken even after having found her own inner strengths.

"It still is. Guinevere—"

"I must go." Yet, she could not move. "There are things to be done." There was nothing left to be said and she hadn't the energy left to explain further. He would understand or he would not, but right now she couldn't muster the wherewithal to care. Gwen laid all her dreams at his feet, cast away all the promises not kept, stamped down the longing and desire for the man she once adored with a curtsey and a bow of her head. She slipped easily into old habit unforgiving, a trigger on reset and ignoring the twinge of pain that flash on the king's face. "My lord."

Arthur ached for the loss of his name on her lips. She had not been so formal with him in private for years. Her use of the honorific was a sign of her further withdrawal, and he did not try to stop her this time when she walked away, his shock, shame, and guilt fastening him in place, her subservient gestures pounding the final nail in a coffin he'd designed for himself. "Guinevere," he called after her, but she did not afford him a glance nor a hint of hesitation. He was left standing in the midst of both physical and mental chaos staring at the door where she'd departed.

It took a short time to absorb the meaning of her leaving the way she had, only a little longer to grasp that she was not coming back any time soon if at all. His gaze remained on the spot though his eyes were as dazed as his riotous thoughts and emotions, his mouth working for the words he should have found to stop her and yet still eluded him.

"Arthur?" Merlin entered quietly, holding a tray heaped with meats, cheeses, fruits, and bread that Arthur held little appetite for now. The king's preferred breakfast would curry no favors on this day, a day that should be joyous. Nearly hidden between the plates and the food was a neatly tied scroll that barely registered for the king. Another bidding from one of the other monarchs, no doubt. A request that would have to wait.

The king looked despondently to his servant, his brokenness exposed by the water still on his cheeks. "I've wounded her so deeply that I doubt I'll ever regain her trust. After what I've done, I don't deserve her forgiveness." He was just her king now and it would take an act of God to bring her back to him to be something more again. If ever.

"None of us do," Merlin lamented. "This is my fault."

The king's frown deepened now remembering Merlin's part in this. "You're damned right, it is. You let her remain out there _knowing the truth!_ It would never have gotten this far had you stopped this _months ago!"_

Merlin merely stood there, his face falling into that practiced blank mask he'd perfected over the years. It said more than any words he could ever utter in that he was devastated and trying not to show it. Arthur knew that look and took a mental step back. This was no time to misappropriate culpability to everyone but himself. That was a talent his father held the reins to, not he.

"Sorry," the king said, raising a hand in awkward submission, his anger cooling almost immediately. "Not all of the blame falls on you. All of us have dishonored her. She would have been the first to our defense had it been the other way around. And…you had tried to make me see reason on more than one occasion." He saw Merlin's eyes widen perceptibly at the admission and Arthur's guilt spiraled ever higher.

"Damn right, I did, and you near banished me for it."

Arthur exhale was long and labored as he strode toward the long oak table, regret streaming through his every tumultuous thought, a hand swiping his face, then raking through his hair. He leaned on the edge of the table, stared at the dark wood as if it held the answers to all his problems. Riddled with scratch marks and worn with age but finely polished, a glossy surface to deflect its flaws. He felt like that right now, scarred underneath with only a veneer sheen on the surface to hide them. But they were not all of his makings and it was time to rub them all out. Gwen was right. It wasn't just about him. There were other issues of trust and knowledge awaiting a resolution.

"Tell me, Merlin. How is it that you always know what's going on around here before anyone else?" Arthur turned to look at him briefly as he unsheathed Excalibur and placed it on the table, but with enough time to note the mask was firmly back in place and making his suspicions rise up. "You can start with this and that sorry excuse of a story you pulled out of thin air to explain its presence." He faced his servant and crossed his arms. "And who the hell is Emrys?"

…..

Each painful affront that burned through her mind led right back to Morgana despite Arthur and Merlin's heartbreaking share in it and fueled each step until Gwen was striding long and determined across the courtyard, her eyes glazed with barely contained anger and fixed on a target unseen.

With the door left ajar during the entire conversations between Merlin, Gwen, and the king, Fredrick had heard near everything and struggled to remain impartial, though that was very hard to do even for a seasoned guard such as himself, trained to ignore the privacy of the elite. He was already invested in Gwen and his heart broke for her. For them all, though Gwen was scarred the most. Everyone in Camelot had known the bond the three of them shared, strange as it were, two commoners with the ear of the king for obviously different reasons, and the king who dared to listen, challenging anyone who spoke ill of his relationships with either. There had been great sadness wafting from those chambers a little while ago, an ending to not just friendships, but love and hope. He knew they were all adrift now, the tethers of trust torn to shreds and may never be bound again.

Fredrick solemnly followed his mistress, concern on his face at the tempest brewing inside her, though the direction they were going, he knew this storm was long overdue. Gwen had not said a word to him when she emerged from the king's quarters, though as her path crossed with Merlin carrying a tray heaped with enough food for two, she'd flashed a sullen glance to him, ignoring the pain-fueled pleading in the depths of his blue orbs, continuing on her way with a resentful roll of her eyes.

Gwen felt the rush of something new: a taste for vengeance, terrifying it was and rousing all the same and so uncaring at this point that she let it take her. It was Morgana who'd wrecked her life, crushed her dignity, and ultimately stole her dreams. She'd toyed with their lives, disgraced them, and marred the honor of them all. She'd set Arthur and all her friends against her, and even tried to kill her. Twice as far as she knew. Morgana was warped, perverted, wicked beyond all recognition, and there was nothing left of the woman Gwen had known whilst growing up. This was someone else and she was _not_ under an enchantment. It was of her own choosing to walk the path of darkness and evil, and that realization made it at once harder and also that much easier for Gwen to confront the witch.

"My lady," Fredrick stated tentatively from behind her, trying his best to be placating. "Perhaps you should wait until you have a cooler head."

"My head's just fine, Fredrick. It's my footwork that should worry you. I will need the use of your sword. I'm a little out of practice and my usual blade was lost in Longstead months ago. Besides, who the hell cares anyway?" Gwen's pace sped up, the swish of her skirt and the click of her shoes in time with the pounding of hammers, the planked elevated stand for Morgana's beheading taking shape in the courtyard, a row of inverted "L" gallows stretched beyond the gates. All of Ring Street and more would be lined with them by the end of the day.

"My lady. Gwen!" He reached for her and spun her to him, holding her by the shoulders. "You can't."

"I need this, Fredrick! No longer will I be a victim! What she's done—!"

"I know! I know! But, you mustn't—"

"Don't you, too…" she begged with accusatory eyes, bracing for yet another betrayal of trust from the last of her friends. "Don't tell me that it isn't worth it! To turn the other cheek! I want to be angry! I _need_ to be angry! I'm not going to be a lady with her because she certainly hasn't been one with me! Now let me go!"

The soldier's face melted into guilt and regret and he gently released her, knowing that he was trying to take something away from her that she had every right to own. No one deserved to suffer so much, especially one so innocent, so young. Yet, to have the strength to endure so much pain alone and still hold her head high with dignity even when she thought she had none left was something so few could have managed without losing so much more of themselves. Gwen's spine was made of the hardest iron, her bones of courage and fortitude, surpassing the valor and strength of everyone he'd ever known. But vengeance, this action could swallow up the gentle and compassionate side of her, the grace and humility that made her so adored by many including himself. He also knew that this could be her first step toward recovery or the road to her own damnation.

"I can't possibly know how you feel, Gwen," he said, impressing a more fatherly tone than that of the mere guard that he was, though deeply desiring that to be his place more and more now. "And I'm sorry for all that has happened to you. Truly. You didn't deserve any of it." He hoped she'd come to respect his counsel and now she needed it the most. "You're at a crossroad, you have a choice. The moment you step over that line and commit cold-blooded murder, you'll never be the same again; you'll never be able to go back."

"That will be my burden to carry, Fredrick. I've learned these last few months how to shoulder that very well without anyone's help. I'll live with it."

Gwen spun on her heels and continued her hurried gait toward the dungeons, Fredrick not far behind, and nothing left to say. At least nothing that she would listen to right now. They were at the stairs that led to the cells below in no time and not breaking her stride, Gwen hiked up her skirt so far that she bared more ankle and calf that would send some eyebrows skyward. In fact, she tucked the fabric and a kerchief into her bodice so that her legs were free from obstruction even when she was on the ground floor and winding her way through the maze of crowded cells until she stood before the one in isolation and occupied by the High Priestess.

"You disgust me, Morgana. I had come to terms that you hated me and wanted me dead, but I never thought you capable of such iniquity. Lancelot..." Gwen knew the whys and wherefores of Morgana's assaults against her and there was nothing more to be learned, though it was still inconceivable that someone so loved by all could be corrupted by power and an unreasonable thirst for retaliation against those very same people. "How could you?"

Morgana was just starting on the meager meal she'd received for repast, stale bread and moldy cheese. It was more than she had given her prisoners and just as unpalatable, but as she had not eaten for over a day now, a succulent feast to her. She chewed a little slower when she glanced to Gwen, savoring not only the lingering taste of pungent cheese but also the look of sheer indignation on the maiden's face. A wicked sneer came to Morgana's lips as she rose to her feet and sauntered toward the bars as if she were in the position of advantage rather than one with everything to lose.

"So. You know." Her grin was wide and her eyes sparkled with decadent delight. "How did it feel kissing a Shade, Gwen? A dead man? Was his touch as cold as Arthur's or couldn't you tell the difference?" Morgana laughed at the amalgam of anger, disgust, and confusion playing across her former servant's pretty features.

Gwen was still deep in her ire and Morgana's degeneracy did not help. The witch skirted the real issue as usual by not acknowledging her own culpability at the depravity of her actions, of raising the dead and abandoning the sanctity of life. She'd defiled his body, his memory, his honor to the ruin of three lives, and all she had left was to sink to the depths of the debauchery.

"You're mad," Gwen realized, sickened and horrified. "Is that all you have to say? What you did to us was despicable!"

Morgana chuckled most inappropriately. "Indeed. Agravaine informed me that you were banished; I suppose that was a small enough victory for a time. But not as much as when Arthur sought another not long after you were gone. A princess, in fact. That was….well, absolutely delectable knowing that it didn't take long for him to get over a lowly peasant. She was beautiful, I heard, a better match for the fool than you'll ever be." She snickered mischievously, thrusting her venomous dagger as deep as she could drive it and then twisting it for added measure. "They spent a lot of time together, too…in his chambers. They said his bed sheets needed to be changed every day, did you know that?" Morgana laughed again at the delicious scandal a few deceitful words could cause.

Arthur had known his share of women before and after Gwen, even turning desirous eyes upon Morgana for some time, when it was widely believed that Uther might sanction the marriage between his ward and his son, years before the truth of her birth was revealed. But the arrogant prince had mainly been concerned about weapons, war, and the welfare of his kingdom, the needful things of a healthy, young man forsaken for the lust of the blade, glory, and so-called honor.

That was all before she had caught his fancy, Arthur seeming to yearn for her as greedily as she did for him even as they were so far out of reach, both untouchable. It was forbidden to mix the classes, deadly, yet excitingly terrifying since he was royalty and she a commoner. How they'd tried to break the dizzying spell they'd cast upon each other, taking turns to hurt one another while denying how they truly felt. In time, however, they dared to love, choosing to risk it all and defy the odds, to feed the agonizing hunger that consumed waking hours and sometimes their dreams and could only be sated in the arms of the other. They loved in secret and later for all to see.

Gwen had not heard a whisper about Arthur and the princess, though she had noticed a few people unable to make eye contact in the hospital yesterday, casting their gazes away from her a few times and some even halting their conversations in their crossing. But she'd thought it was due to her sudden reappearance in Camelot, perhaps of her even walking around freely as if nothing had happened those three months ago, as if all had been forgiven. After leaving the hospital, she'd isolated herself in her surprisingly well-ordered home despite the destruction everywhere around it and shut out the world. She had her own decisions to make and needed some time to contemplate her future in a place where she felt as a stranger. Now, however, she couldn't be sure Morgana was telling the truth and she could not afford to dwell on its merit. Gwen had lost Arthur from that first dreadful day, and whatever he chose to do thereafter was no longer her concern or worry. At least, that was what she wanted to believe.

"Perhaps, I would have cared about Arthur's affairs before, but now I do not. Just like your magic, your words can't hurt me any longer, Morgana."

"No? Well, then you shouldn't be troubled by that little curse I placed upon Arthur this day. Even if things are well between you, he'll never have an heir with you nor anyone else for that matter. He's worthless to the kingdom now unless he managed to impregnate Mithian before she left." Morgana's words dripped poison and her laugher turned into a cackle that echoed throughout the dungeons, scraping against Gwen's nerves as much as those bothersome words did. They should not have, yet they did.

She had come to dress down Morgana, but all she'd managed thus far was defend the honor of a dead friend and deflect her feelings for Arthur. It was gut wrenching that Morgana seemed to hold some sort of power over them even now, cursing their futures to be as dismal and ill-fated as her own end. She would hurt them from the grave if she could, never giving up, so who knew how much more damage she could cause before her execution tomorrow. Gwen's armor may have been slightly dented by Morgana's crude innuendo and remarks, and she yearned to end the bile the witch spewed much sooner than anyone could imagine.

"Then all I have to do is kill you to break the curse." Gwen twisted around so quickly and drew Fredrick's sword that he had no chance of stopping her. She'd played a similar maneuver before and had been successful that time, too, only she had been trying to save Morgana and her life back then. When they had been friend and confidant.

"No, Gwen. Not this time," Morgana said with a cool, confident smiled. "The curse is unbreakable, even with my death."

"You're lying." Gwen was just as self-assured, her voice hard and steady. "Open the door," she ordered a nervous looking guard standing nearby.

"My lady," said the startled guard. "I—I cannot allow you to harm the prisoner."

"Gwen," Fredrick said calmer than he felt. "Think about what you're doing." He could easily overpower her and seize the weapon if he chose, but that would undermine the deadly authority she was expertly displaying and surely jeopardize her trust in him.

Morgana cackled again, twirling away from the cell bars. "All hail the Hollow Queen!"

"Open this door at once!" When the guard didn't move, Gwen turned a glare so hard and biting that the man visibly shriveled in his armor. "You will unlock this door now or you'll find yourself behind one of them indefinitely."

That threat surprised even Fredrick knowing that Gwen had little power to command such an order, but the guards did not. They probably thought the same as Morgana, that she was as good as being crowned queen again and her commands must be obeyed.

"Her time draws nearer by the hour, my lady," Fredrick reminded her in his usual pragmatic tone.

 _"My lady,"_ Morgana scoffed.

"Tomorrow—"

"Is too late, Fredrick. My time is now." She paid one more exasperated look to the guard, pinning him with a glare equal to the king. "I shall not ask again."

The guard moved quickly to the door, the clink of keys in his reluctant, nervous hands filling the silence. He opened the creaky door and stood next to it as Gwen entered with Fredrick close on her heels. Morgana backed away, but she still had not lost her playful edge.

"I'm proud of you, Gwen. I didn't think you had it in you."

"Give her your sword," Gwen ordered the guard.

"Gwen, be reasonable," Fredrick pleaded. "We can't arm a prisoner."

"Oh, that's all right," Morgana said. "I think she stands a better chance of killing me with this on." Pulling up her tattered sleeve, Morgana displayed the spiked bracelet like a badge of honor, dried blood crusting her arm around it.

"Another bracelet," Gwen scoffed. She looked squarely at the High Priestess. "I hope it causes you as much misery as the one you used on me."

All the glee slipped from Morgana's visage at that. Gwen had never wished harm on anyone before even when she had been the victim. She'd even taken the blame for some things that weren't her fault such as the time in Castle Fyrien when Morgana had purposefully given up their location to the secret tunnel and Gwen thinking it was her startled scream at finding the bones of dead soldiers that had alerted Cenred's men and caused their capture. She had been so humble and naive back then, so forgiving. Morgana realized that with all her scheming to break Gwen and bring her down, she'd only made her stronger at the cost of her innocence.

"Touché, Gwen. This new vindictive nature of yours will serve you well as queen."

Gwen nodded a few times, keeping her eyes level on Morgana. "I think so, too." With Fredrick at her right, she gracefully turned just enough to hand him the sword but then swiftly brought her fist around and connected solidly with Morgana's jaw, sending the High Priestess back against the wall with a thud so loud that something within her cracked. Gwen gritted her teeth at the jarring pain careening through her hand and arm as she shook out her aching knuckles but then rushed toward the slumping witch nonetheless. Fredrick grabbed the unraveling maiden by the waist from behind and lifted her off the ground.

"Let go of me!" Gwen demanded as she squirmed in his unyielding grip.

Sword in one hand and the struggling Gwen wresting to be free wrapped in the other arm, Fredrick hurriedly exited the cell, the startled guard locking it promptly behind them and then skirting to the far wall to get out of their way.

Setting the frazzled maiden down and then sheathing his sword, Fredrick waited with hands on hips as Gwen paced back and forth to slowly regain her composure. She shook her hand several more times and then caressed the knuckles gently, hissing at her touch.

"You all right, there?" Fredrick asked.

"It's fine. Just hurts." Gwen looked at the unconscious Morgana and then lifted her chin. "It was worth it, though. For once, she couldn't see what was coming."

Fredrick smiled a little as Gwen untucked her skirt and pressed the fabrics back into place, looking more like the humble woman he knew. "I'm pleased you didn't follow through with the sword, though once everyone learns of your innocence and her part in the deception, no one would have blamed you."

"Perhaps. It will be over tomorrow as you say."

Gwen looked from the unconscious High Priestess to Fredrick and saw the man for the first time really. He had been there from the near beginning of her exile, had gone from stranger to personal guard to friend whether she'd wanted him as such or not. He had empathized with her pain, sympathized with her circumstances, and protected her for no other reason than to serve. She could not understand his loyalty, a devotion she had not earned. Still, she appreciated it.

She had no authority over him, yet he had not respected or trusted her decision to confront Morgana whether he understood them or not. Granted it was not a wise decision to threaten the witch with bodily harm, but for once she wanted Morgana to feel the uncertainty, to suffer being cornered and trapped, to be deceived. He should not have intervened the way he had. Fredrick had become too familiar, and she wrestled with yet another decision that could separate her from the only friend she felt she had left.

"I'm grateful for your friendship, Fredrick. In fact, I cherish it. But do not ever disagree with me so openly again. And do not ever touch me. Are we understood?"

Fredrick thinned his lips before his posture resumed the demeanor of a guard on duty. He lowered his eyes and bowed his head. She would make a fine queen, indeed, to be able to say what was truly on her mind, to make the hard decisions, to break people's hearts. "Yes, my lady."

Gwen sighed heavily as she started to wind her way through the cells, unconsciously fingering the white handkerchief peeking from under her bodice. "Fredrick, after Morgana's execution tomorrow, I'm leaving for Longstead. You may come with me if you choose, and if the king allows."

He would follow Gwen into Hell if that was what it took to keep her from harm, but he was taken aback by her sudden desire to leave her home. His lady was recovering all right, now experiencing the first stage of grief: denial. "Are you sure that's what you want?" He was crossing the set boundaries already but he could not help himself. Gwen meant the world to him, and she did not say that he could not give her advice. "The king loves you. He needs you, and you him, perhaps now more than ever."

Gwen stopped and faced the soldier. She had heard him, her whole body had, and she also heard something else with trembling recollection. _"We must not let them win."_ Arthur's words rang through her mind. _"My love, don't let them win."_ It was already too late. That last piece of vile information about Arthur and Mithian whether all true or not had sealed their fate in her mind. The damage had been done.

"Right now, I don't know what I want or what I need." Her voice began to quiver as the pain began to fill her again and tears welled in her eyes. "I love Arthur with all my heart, but I can't trust him. At least not right now."

"I understand," he said softly. "And I'm sorry for you both. But if you're so far away, what chance has he to rebuild your trust?"

She had no answer for that, no words escaped her lips as she opened and closed her mouth. Gwen shook her head and meekly shrugged.

"I see," the soldier acknowledged, realizing that Gwen's heart was controlling her for the first time instead of her good sense. Like so many others, she chose to live with the mistake of hiding from her problems instead of facing them. It seemed so disparate for her to run from all that she held so dear, from those who thrived off her very existence. "For how long should I prepare for your stay?"

Gwen chewed her lower lip and looked at him with remorseful certainty. "For as long as it takes."

…..

* "You…Always Surprise Me," by me.

** Larasmith, Posted Review, FFnet, 23 May 2016

…..

A/N: If you're like me, I'm sure you were tired of rehashing everything that has happened to Gwen, so I hope you liked what I came up with for her confrontation with Morgana.

Just an FYI because it's interesting to me: When I started this story, I thought it was going to be around 10 chapters. This first part of this chapter, in the original outline, and the last part of 19 was supposed to be chapter 10. I had not intended to write about Gwen's captivity nor tackle a magic reveal (as through Fredrick & Maxwell), nor even capture Morgana. I just wanted to fill in the blanks of what we saw on TV. But larasmith, in one of her dedicated comments, sparked the idea and there you go. (And KIMMIKY begged on bended knee with tears in her eyes for a reveal! LOL!) The story expanded, the chapters got longer too (another request of another reader, thanks, Nim'14), more and more holes then needed to be filled in and I just couldn't stop and here is where we are. I hope you have enjoyed this journey as much as I have. Just a few more chapters to go and I hope you continue them with me. Thanks for your loyalty.

Oh, another FYI for the long timers (sorry): For my own satisfaction, I've gone back and refined all the chapters up until 14 to smooth out some of the rough spots (my first story will be revised as well). I intend to review the remaining chapters and repost them if needed until I am caught up to wherever I am at the time. The only major addition is Chapter 8 where I've added a new scene between Arthur and Mithian, and an expanded scene of her departure. The rest has been primarily fine-tuning though you still may encounter a few errors here and there. Shucks! Ah, well. Nobody's perfect. :-)


	21. Some Kind of Magic

For Mersan123 because of her steadfast loyalty to Merlin the man. And for all the other diehards who desire justice for Merlin: this one is for you, too.

IDO Merlin, but it owns my heart.

…..

Chapter 21 Some Kind of Magic

 _Romans marched, Immortals conquered, and Saxons invaded the land. Children played, Guinevere laughed, and Merlin wore a robe._ \- Chapter 13 The Way of the King

It was a day after regaining control of Camelot and the king's attention was in high demand: meetings, reports, surveys, Annis and the other monarchs, yet Arthur dismissed them all one by one until a matter much more urgent was resolved: Merlin and the secrets the king knew he held. It was only moments after Guinevere left his chambers, but he'd already decided what the next priority would be. He felt it vital, that all he was depended on it. The king raised a hand to stop Merlin from speaking even though it had taken the manservant too long to begin anyway after setting down the tray.

"Before you say anything, let me tell you what I know about this sword so that you are not mistaken by what I expect to hear from you." In his hesitation, Arthur hoped it was seen as a dare, his face remaining ever so severe. But truth was this would be the first time he'd spoken to anyone about his true experience with Excalibur, of the visions it'd granted him, of the power it gave him. Of his covetousness for something so forbidden, something magnificent and oh so magical. Would Merlin think him a hypocrite?

"This weapon," Arthur confessed, unsure where to begin as the harshness of his features and demeanor vanished to that of almost humility. Would Merlin think he'd lost his mind? "I know it's not possible, but it's almost as if it … knows me." The servant's eyebrows climbed into unruly raven-colored hair falling onto his forehead, and Arthur thought for just a split second that maybe that was not a good way to start. Yet, he pressed on and voiced the insanely impossible. "It showed me things. The past, the present, and the future. In those first few moments that I held it, it showed me the world as it really was and how it will be—or … can be. It was as if it had … waited for me. That it had been—forged … for me." He paused to let his strange recounting sink in, to evaluate the reaction of the man in front of him, the smart remark to reduce it to a jest. Only, now the blank mask so familiar to the king had returned after the initial spark of surprise in Merlin's eyes faded, the servant offering no other allusions to condemn or acknowledge whatsoever.

"Well then." Arthur crossed his arms and began a slow pace around Merlin, giving the man a wide berth and getting back to the facts as he knew them. "I recognize it as the very same weapon my father used against the Black Knight—there's no mistaking it, and I'm positive you wielded it against the Immortal Army. I can only guess that magic veiled its true nature from us back then. It looked like a common sword to me, not the one my father had used." He saw a shadow of guilt cloud Merlin's eyes and felt being closer to hitting the mark. "I could be mistaken about this next part, but I don't think I am. It was made with dragon's fire and for a time, it was … submerged beneath water before finding its way to that boulder. It was lodged there by the sorcerer who tried to heal my father." Arthur grimaced with confusion and shook his head. Why had he put it like that? He'd believed for months that the old wizard had killed Uther, but now, apparently, he was of a new opinion. Agravaine, Morgana, and a delicate–chained token full of death. Another damned truth unlocked for him and slipped him up. The king set his jaw and brushed off the considerable actuality, determined not to waver from his primary train of thought. "That fairy tale you made up was just that, wasn't it?"

The lies of many years unraveled before him and his very king undid them. Arthur just absolved Emrys for killing his father and pieced together the history of the sword even if it was fragmented, a portrait incomplete. And the king wasn't enraged or threatening, more calculating as Merlin saw it, methodical. What could he possibly say in the face of so much verity? "Arthur—"

"A _**fiction**_... meant to give me hope," the king interrupted, waiting for the right moment to punctuate his final point. "That I may believe in myself and extract the sword from the stone." He knew. Arthur had not denied that to himself, realizing soon after the spectacle that the last part of the "history lesson" Merlin had concocted was made up. The man could not very well admit that it was full of magic, but how could Arthur had not known. Excalibur was his for the taking, and if he had not been able to release it from the rock, it would still be there, denying any other a victory, waiting for him to believe no matter how long it took. Arthur wanted to know how that was so, exactly how had he been able to do that.

Though the king's eyes drilled spikes into the servant, his tone had turned gentler than Merlin had expected and he wasn't sure how to react, so he just stood there, a slight glaze to his eyes, all that he showed of his growing anxiety. Was this not what he'd wanted? For Arthur to know the real him and the truth about magic? It had been near seven years since the Great Dragon blindsided him about their destiny, and it'd seem a lifetime already of subterfuge and trickery, deception and death in proving that damned lizard was right. He'd believed as the coincidences kept happening though, near from the beginning, as if the Fates had been shoving him toward Camelot and Arthur all his life. How he had longed for this day, and any further deception would only bury him deeper in the grave he'd dug and damage the fragile trust dangling between Arthur and himself right now.

"It—worked," Merlin cautiously admitted.

Arthur's head snapped up at the brevity of an answer that wasn't even close to what he'd expected, but it spoke volumes of something else. Merlin had deceived him, and despite his anger held at bay, Arthur could not blame anyone but himself. The gravity of the man's influence on him was so stark that he felt his own vulnerability, so trusting that he'd actually believed his servant's words to do the impossible and make the attempt of the gullible. Merlin had done it many times, always making him feel as if he could do anything if he believed that he could. And damn it, the deep trust was still there, still as solid and as real now that Arthur could practically hold it. Excalibur had graced him with so many truths that denying, and raging, and thundering about would do little good and make him appear the fool that Tristan thought he was.

"I see," the king said, keen that Merlin avoided the question of how the sword had gotten there, and appearing that he wasn't about to offer up anything else. The young monarch hummed and resumed his pacing around Merlin, ire fraying his scalp and prickling his extremities, but he would not let it loose. It seemed he would need to pry the information from the man and Arthur had plenty to share. "Faeries, the Keeper of the Bridge, and the Great Dragon." A glance to Merlin halted his steps, a look of surprise on the servant's face again, this time mingled with traces of fear. Which of these incidents had startled him, Arthur wondered. Or had all of them? How would he react to the full of it?

"I was drowning in a lake though I do not recall anything like that ever happening, but the sorcerer Emrys pulled me from the depths. In the Perilous Lands, Grettir called me "Courage"; said that I needed "Strength" and "Magic" to succeed in my quest to find the trident of the Fisher King. Emrys removed the cursed token that Morgana had given me from my wrist. And the Great Dragon, it was he who tamed it and set it free."

Merlin's mask had fallen to the floor completely, his eyes blinking away the fear and bordering on awe, now having realized the depth of Excalibur's influence on Arthur though not yet fully understanding it all. Of how amazingly calm and controlled was the king's demeanor at having such an extraordinary, magical experience let alone his ability to express it in like manner. Arthur was no longer the oblivious prat of just two days ago. He was enlightened. He was knowledgeable. He had wisdom. Had Kilgharrah known of these effects? He'd always insisted that only Arthur wield the sword. Could it be that he'd known the king would need this edge to fulfill a destiny that so many relied upon?

"How did you manage it, Merlin? Are you in league with the sorcerer Emrys?"

Excalibur had unveiled his secret in rare and spectacular form, had shown Arthur his true self in those instances of snatching him from death's threshold, the blindfolds removed to see Merlin for who he really was even though the king hadn't made the connection that he was Emrys. It was beyond Arthur's comprehension to see him in any other capacity even with all the clues right in front of him, and Merlin was flabbergast from all of it. "I—No, I—."

"Choose your words carefully," the king warned. "So much depends on them."

Maxwell could see his true nature, and now Arthur could also, too mindful to be fooled by weak lies and idiotic excuses. "It's…complicated."

An exasperated sigh escaped Arthur, extremely mild for another stunted response. Most of the time he couldn't keep Merlin from prattling on about one thing or another especially when sorcery was concerned. Indeed. The man was a veritable walking library on the arcane in as much as the mundane, but magic he was an expert. "You've always had some sort of answer before, even if some of them were half-truths." Arthur shrugged and shook his head, spreading his arms apart, urging the servant to speak. He needed his honesty more than anything else right now. Just what did his servant know? "Well?"

A decisive moment was at hand for Merlin. He'd both dreaded and longed for this, though now he realized he'd never really dreamed of what he'd say when the time came. Yet, Arthur had eloquently set the stage for him and all he had to do was to draw the curtains and assume the part. And so, his entire countenance altered into a visage of wisdom and authority, shoulders and head high, a natural state of being that he seldom let show. He was a son of the earth, a conjurer of the elements to command at his will, and for the first time, he truly owned everything that Maxwell had revealed about himself and all that he had done in the past and that which he had left to do. This was his moment of truth and his pride would not be mistaken.

"The faeries are called the Sidhe." Merlin spoke slowly, deliberately, the time of full disclosure somehow not as terrifying as he'd always believed it would be. "Sophia and her father were trapped in human form and to return to them, they tried to sacrifice you in a lake." Merlin could tell that the fullness of the incident fell heavily into place for Arthur by the grave look on his face, and this was just the dawn of years of deception and cover-ups forced into the light. How would the king receive the rest of it?

"I met the Fisher King," Merlin continued. "He was alive, waiting for me, and he gave me water from the Lake of Avalon in exchange for Morgana's token to end his suffering, to allow him to finally rest and restore prosperity to the Perilous Lands. Morgana tried to kill you by draining your life source with it." The king chewed his lower lip, and Merlin was certain Arthur was working out the timing of when Morgana had given him the token and how long she'd actually been plotting against them. Never mind that the Fisher King had still been alive after three hundred years, though that realization would surely set in at some point for the monarch.

"Kilgharrah, the Great Dragon, had lost hold of his senses after twenty-two years of imprisonment. All of his kin had been slaughtered. He was frightened, alone, the last in all the kingdoms at that time. He'd gone mad, Arthur; had forgotten about Destiny in his rage and wanted to kill you."

All color had left the king by the end of Merlin's telling of events that had played out so differently for him, each instance flashing through his mind in their entirety, now unfettered by the sludge of deception and clear as glass. Lakes and faeries. Destiny and dragons. Morgana's token.

"Why would a sorcerer want to save me, someone who has persecuted his kind? Who is he, Merlin?"

Merlin had resigned to tell the truth and spoke with confident authority. "I am Emrys, a warlock born with magic and a Dragonlord borne of my father's death."

The horrifying snap of the gallows being tested outside cracked through the silence. "W-what?" Arthur croaked.

"I'm a sorcerer. I have magic." Bright gold flashed in Merlin's eyes and the fire roared into being in the hearth. Arthur took a hesitant step back as Merlin incanted a spell and a fiery dragon emerged from the flames, flapping its wings in a skyward spiral before dissolving into embers to drift silently to the floor. "All I've ever used it for was to protect you, your kingdom, our friends, and the innocent. Magic can be used for good, too."

Instinctually, Arthur's sword hand twitched with the thought to run him through, but instead his lips pressed hard together and his eyes glazed with bitter water. From the moment he touched Excalibur, all of those gnawing questions he chose to ignore since Merlin stumbled into his life began to piece together bit by bit yet only led to even more questions that he could not grasp hold of completely. Merlin was Emrys somehow, a not-so-doddery old sorcerer after all, but a young warlock with unimaginable power.

And Balinor. Now Arthur understood Merlin's heartbreak over the death of a stranger. Balinor had died in his son's arms and Arthur's final words about no man's death being worth another man's tears had probably skewed Merlin's heart as much as it did his now. How wrong Arthur had been, for he'd shed tears over his own father's passing when Merlin had forced out a weak jest to cover up his loss. Never had he expected this. Arthur had no words, his mouth dry and a headache threatened while humility and shame ruffled about the edges.

Merlin saw the king's outward struggle to say something, and when Arthur could produce no sound, he continued. "Gwen's father created the sword which had never been wielded by anyone, and Kilgharrah forged it with dragon's breath for you to defeat the Black Knight. I took Excalibur from the armory after your father used it and threw it into the lake where it stayed safe for many years. After I received it from the Lady of the Lake Avalon to use it against the Immortal Army, I imbued it with your blood before I drove it into the stone so that only you could remove it, if that was what you really wanted. It is and has been, as you say, meant only for you."

Arthur was numb, but not so much to allow the stinging under his lids any liberty. His voice cracked, however, as he looked Merlin straight in the eye, the order of things shaping a hard reality for the king. "You…are a sorcerer." There. He'd said it. He could scarcely believe, but it made sense now. "All those lucky escapes when there seemed to be none, or tree limbs breaking at just the right moment to flatten a bandit, or a flying spear out of nowhere to take down a boar wasn't luck after all. These past years has been nothing but an illusion. Some of my great deeds were not mine to claim. Each time there was a miracle, the only constant was you, Merlin. And I could never see that. You were the hero and I've been the fool."

Merlin was relieved to some extent at the king's restraint, amazed really at his humility. Arthur was clearly upset, his dignity splintered, yet he seemed to have already embraced this new reality, accepting these life-changing truths without going on a rampage and calling for his head. The king only wanted answers, and he truly deserved to have them. "No, Arthur. You are a great warrior and a king respected by your peers and your people. But you were misled as so many others were, and too much was at risk for me to be truthful at times. Please understand..."

"That your life was in danger from the moment you stepped foot in Camelot." It came out sterner than he'd wanted, but he had clarity now, sour as it was. Their gazes locked in an understanding that summed up the entirety of Merlin's existence since their crossing. Next to Guinevere, Merlin was his best friend, two commoners the guiding lights to his sometimes-aimless rudder. Arthur was ashamed, the flux of emotions draining, and his voice softened. "Yet you've been saving mine from that very day. Never once did you seek any credit or recompense for any of it."

"That's not why I do it."

"No. You were preparing me for this day. I understand that now. Merlin, I know we did not start out as friends, but I'd like to think that we had come to that. I just wish you had trusted me enough so that we could have arrived here together."

Now the king shared his hurt and disappointment at last. All those times Merlin had proclaimed that he trusted Arthur with his life had heartbreakingly been a lie that made him cringe inside each time he'd uttered it. His secret was too great to be known, especially to someone so close to the dread king Uther, and to some extent, who'd become one himself. He'd even shamefully believed that Arthur, someone whose entire existence was the cause and effect of a bloody and broken kingdom, would have had him executed. How could he not believe that?

"I wanted to tell you, Arthur." Merlin the humble servant was back, not the confident warlock that had surfaced a while ago. "So many times, but then something bad would happen and convince you further how evil you thought magic was. And … I didn't want to put you in a difficult position with your father or the laws. You'd had no choice but to chop my head off."

 _Or at least try_ , they **both** dared to think.

Arthur knew that without Excalibur these past years and his father's unyielding stance on the execution of sorcerers and having sentenced Guinevere twice, it would have been an absolute, a losing battle to fight had Merlin been found out. And glimpsing back at all those times he'd condemned magic and killed its wielders in Merlin's presence, he understood the man's reasons to hold his secret so close to heart. Yet, there were always options, and one of them could have been to defy his father with the utmost of force to keep Merlin from harm. If he was so powerful, surely he could escape using magic.

"I'm not sure what I would have done, but like Morgana, you never gave me the chance."

Merlin lowered his gaze for the first time, the king hitting as hard as it was going to get, but still wounding him in the process. He deserved much more wrath for all his years of deceit but was grateful not to receive it.

"What am I to do, Merlin? You're a sorcerer, a—warlock. I should have you arrested. Part of me wants to put you in a cell right next to Morgana just for lying to me all this time. But most of me … still trust you." Somehow, Arthur believed Excalibur would not have it any other way. "Needs to trust you."

"I was helping the only way I knew how. I hope that you can one day forgive me, Arthur."

"I hope so, too." Arthur shifted uncomfortably, hands on his hips now, more questions plowing through his head and vying to spurt out, perhaps incoherently at the rate they were racing about. "But I can't help to think that Excalibur has enchanted me, Merlin. I saw Roman soldiers, Immortals, Saxons invading from the north. There were also children, _**my**_ children playing, and I've never seen Guinevere so happy. Even you, Merlin, the same man I see now, was dressed in a robe." Arthur huffed at the skepticism that crossed Merlin's face. "Yes. It sounds as ridiculous as it appeared in my head." There was an actual moment of levity as they shared a genuine grin before the king sobered again. "There was an age of peace throughout all of the kingdoms and by contrast stuff of nightmares and fields of blood with thousands of dead soldiers upon them. How is it that I know these things? Why did it choose me?"

"That's incredible, Arthur." Now it was Merlin's turn to pace, rounding the king and assuming a posture of a man in deep thought. "Well, I can't be certain, but I believe that … all of us are born with a spark of magic, for life itself is a miracle and something to behold." He stopped and stared at the king with knowing blue eyes. "But your birth was of the Old Religion, more than a spark and enough to call forth the magic of the sword and give you the ability to glimpse through the ages and of things to come for a reason. There is a prophecy that tells of a Once and Future King who will unite the Five Kingdoms and bring forth the time of Albion. … You're that king, Arthur; it would have chosen you even if you'd been born a peasant because it is your destiny to father the golden age to come, and it is mine to help you achieve that or die trying."

Well, he'd asked, and received more fantastic news that should have rattled his core but really did not, only confirming that the bizarre experience was supposed to happen whether he'd pulled it from a rock, received it from a water nymph, or Merlin had simply handed it to him. It had been less than three days since that deed in the forest and he'd had little chance to consider what it all meant, all the while feeling his life was going to change, shattering, terrifying, and invigorating whatever it was. Now he knew how monumental it was and that he'd been disgracefully wrong about so many things.

"Let's hope it does not come to that," Arthur replied with a bit of humility and a hint of dented pride, "but as this Once and Future King"—he couldn't keep the sarcasm from his tone—"how am I to bring about Albion. It's a great and noble feat but I have no idea what to do."

Merlin picked up Excalibur and presented it to Arthur with the blade flat across his palm. "You must accept those with magic and not hunt them anymore. You must free magic."

Arthur's chest constricted and he may have gasped. So there it was. The penultimate answer to it all, perhaps to his very existence. It felt so wrong for the son to undo all that the father had done, to forsake his king's legacy, to lift the curse from the land, and yet, as the tightness lessened and his lungs began to expand again, deep down he knew it was the right thing to do. Uther's reign of tyranny had resulted in death and division, distrust and fear in every corner of the kingdom and stunted their growth to flourish fully. Something brighter awaited them all if he struck down those damned laws, and the king trembled from the rush of possibilities.

"There's no other like you, Arthur. You're destined to be the greatest king this land has ever known, but our journey there will be fraught with unspeakable and unimaginable dangers. Some of your people are suffering and afraid, and some of them want to hurt you. Freeing magic will weaken your enemies and their claims and can only strengthen your realm. There are many of us who can help you, but only you can start the healing by putting an end to what your father began. You have a good heart, Arthur. It's time to be true to it."

Arthur heard those words before from his beloved when he'd broken their union and her heart earlier this year. With unworthy deeds like that, it was no wonder he always had a hard time reconciling the truth of those words within himself. He'd followed a reckless and cruel king and his own misguided beliefs instead of heeding to his shouting, conflicting heart. He'd failed so miserably, hadn't he? Why did he deserve such loyalty when he'd been so wrong about them?

The king reached for the sword, receiving it graciously, feeling that these actions between Merlin … Emrys … and he ceremoniously represented the acceptance of an accord, the sealing of a treaty that had been long in the making. His father had started this mess with that damnable bargain with a witch, and here he was to end it with a warlock. He gripped Excalibur, and that same warm embrace of a friend enveloped him and gave Arthur the balance and fullness that had been missing … forever, now emptied of the refuse of ignorance, hypocrisy, and extreme missteps and filled with a new and worthy purpose. All he needed now was Guinevere to round him out. Thrusting it into his belt, he said lightly for lack of anything better to say, "I trust you can find a proper scabbard for it. I can't very well go around slicing through everything it accidently brushes against, can I?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," Merlin said with a smile and a bow from the hips, his heart pounding in his chest, ready to explode like the rest of him with sheer joy. All these years of living in shadow and fear had come to a whispering end, a breeze rather than a raging storm. This was the happiest Merlin had ever felt.

"I need some time for consideration. You … have magic." He scoffed and palmed his cheek. "I have magic. How do we fix this without the people calling for both our heads?"

"Freedom and justice must be extended to all if the words are to mean anything. Your people on both sides have suffered in this conflict. We start by accepting that magic will not go away, that it is as integral to our lives as the air we breathe. That it can be used for good."

That wise Merlin had emerged again, the one where Arthur had always listened to with amazement that the man was even capable of such profound words when he was so proficient at prattling nonsense sometimes.

"Magic is a part of the earth," Merlin was saying, "and to try to restrain it, to contain what is natural only results in more destructive forces fighting against us. These last twenty-seven years have cost the kingdom so much. Magic is not evil, Arthur. Men control magic and it is what holds their hearts that controls them."

Arthur bobbed his head in acknowledgment. This day had started out dark with his encounter with Morgana, had grown even darker when Guinevere left him, and now after all these new revelations about Merlin and magic, the sword and destiny, somehow a spark of light brighten his world. "That will be all for now, Merlin. Gather my personal knights in the council chambers in one hour's time including Sir Ranulf. We'll have to tell them, but _**only**_ them until we work this out."

Merlin chewed his lip, then nodded in agreement. He could truly say that he trusted them with his life now, but it still worried him a little. Would they be as accepting as the king? "Arthur, I don't think we should tell them about Excalibur, about your visions. It's powerful magic and some could use this as an opportunity to accuse you of being under an enchantment."

"That would mean you'd have to face hard scrutiny and criticism alone when I'm just as-guilty. I'll not be a hypocrite."

"Arthur, there can never be suspicion cast upon you or you could lose the people's trust. This knowledge is a gift, an edge. Perhaps, we can find some way of using it as an advantage."

Arthur sighed deeply, drawing his brows in and entirely serious. "Merlin, you're being selfless again."

"It's just another part of my charm," he said with a bright smile.

Arthur cracked a grin as well and relented. For now. Suspicion of him being enchanted was a strong possibility. And if it was widely known that Merlin was a sorcerer, they'd cast distrustful eyes upon the servant first as the one who'd snared him. After all, he's had the royal's ear for many years, many already wary of the influence the man had upon the king. "Summon Geoffrey immediately, and find Guinevere. I need her council first."

"Yes, my lord." Merlin nodded respectfully and turned to leave. Of course, Gwen needed to know, but she was already angry with him. What would she do once she learned he had magic? That he had the power to end her exile so much sooner. His elation sank a few degrees, the guilt of his part in Gwen's whole ordeal smothering some of it.

Arthur walked toward the tray of food, feeling well enough to eat some of his favorites now. Popping a grape into his mouth and then reaching for another, he spotted a neatly tied scroll next to the plates and picked it up, looking at it quizzically.

"Merlin, what's this?"

The servant stuck his head back through the door just before he was about to close it. "Oh, a list of Agravaine's suspected accomplices. One of the first steps we need to do is to clean your house."

"Right. Very good." He waved it impatiently for Merlin to take, who then hurried back in and took it. "Give it to the captain of the guard and have them arrested on suspicion of treason. Let them know that they will receive a fair trial."

"Yes, my lord," he replied, feeling the pins and needles tingling all over his body, the man bursting to tell Gaius the good news.

"Merlin." Arthur called for attention one last time as the man was near out the door again. Merlin had never been an ordinary peasant meant to live in the mundane, to wash floors or muck out stables. He'd endured humiliation, abuse, and fatigue from overwork at the hands of his friend and king. Though there was always some snarky retort, no lack of gumption to speak up when he was displeased, Merlin had never given up on him. There was so much more packed inside that lanky body, a contradiction to all that he had once known about magic and sorcerers. A heart uncorrupted with one valiant, hard-fought goal in mind. "I'm sorry about the way I treated you. Everything you've done, I know now, for me, for Camelot. For the kingdom we have yet to build."

It hadn't been easy working the Arthur and a few times Merlin had come close to quitting. The road to where they stood now had been full of obstacles, setbacks, and heartbreak, but it was also paved with friendships, a belonging, and bonds. Many people had died for this moment to happen and he was sorry for that, and now, he wistfully wished he'd given Excalibur to Arthur a long time ago.

"Does that mean you're gonna give me a day off?" he asked to cover the never-ending despair in his heart.

Arthur huffed. "Not likely. I think both our jobs have just gotten harder."

"Arthur, you have more friends than you really know. There are many who have waited for you, for this. Many who believe in what you're about to do. Don't ever think you're alone."

"I won't anymore. Thank you. I think."

Merlin could not fight the smile that stretched across his face as he dipped his head and then left the room. He wasn't even sure his feet were touching the ground as he sped toward the steward's office for his head was surely in the clouds. He'd give the king's orders to the steward to summon Gwen, the knights, and deliver the warrant to the guard captain because he needed to speak to Gaius or he'd surely explode. Arthur was brilliant. The future was bright. And he still had his head intact.

…..

"The king knows!" Merlin blurted, bursting through the door in long strides and coming to a halt as a stunned Sir Maxwell and Gaius, wrapped arm in arm, halted in their tracks. Gaius had had enough of lying around and since Sir Maxwell was there cleaning the mess they'd made making the potions for the cursed Southrons, he provided the little assistance the physician needed to get from his cot to a bench.

Merlin stared at them with wide, excited eyes, everything magical about him practically radiated from him. His smile beamed, and his body seemed to have been alight with fire. At least that was what Maxwell saw and Gaius to a much lesser perceptual degree and after the initial shock wore off, they continued the slow progression to their short destination. Merlin, after recovering himself, took Gaius' other arm to help.

"The king knows I have magic."

Gaius stopped in his descent to be seated and stared at Merlin with wide and terror-stricken eyes. "What? Where are the guards? Why aren't you in the dungeons? Merlin, did you kill the king?"

Merlin's face scrunched with indignation. "What?! No! Here. Sit." Maxwell snorted at his reaction to the old man's naïve yet treasonous accusation as they eased Gaius down.

"I can only make that assumption because you haven't been arrested. I suppose you could have knocked him out or turn him into a toad or something."

"Gaius, what are you saying?" Merlin asked as Maxwell snickered. "I would never hurt Arthur like that. Well, except for the few times I did have to knock him out intentionally but believe me, there've been other times I've wanted to—"

"Merlin!" Gaius snapped and Maxwell laughed outright this time. "What happened? How did Arthur find out and why isn't he calling for your head?"

"It was incredible," he said, glancing from one to the other. "Trust me, it was intense and Arthur was very upset, but I never dreamed it would be this easy."

"Easy?!" Gaius exclaimed.

"By the goddesses, Merlin," Maxwell said. "Do tell us."

"Excalibur revealed to Arthur the truth about magic, that it isn't something to be feared, or fought. That all of his people have a right to live as they choose. He's going to free magic."

More shock crossed their faces, this time mixed with incredulity. "That is … hard to believe," Maxwell said warily.

"Indeed," Gaius agreed, more confounded than they realized. "Merlin, are you speaking of the sword that emptied the Cup of Life? The one Uther used to defeat the Black Knight?"

"The very same."

"How is it possible that it showed him anything let alone Arthur so readily believing it?"

Merlin took a deep breath and exhaled. What he was about to say was done all behind Gaius' back, more of his deception on the dawn. "I discovered that a weapon forged with dragon's breath could kill something already dead. Gwen gave me the sword and Kilgharrah did the rest, making it especially for Arthur."

"Arthur was supposed to fight the wraith," Gaius recollected solemnly. "But because I drugged him, Uther fought in his place."

"Kilgharrah was furious with me. He said that in the wrong hands it could cause great evil. I couldn't let Uther keep it, so I stole it from the armory and threw it in the lake so no one could find it. I needed it to defeat Morgause's Immortal Army and the Lady of the Lake retrieved it for me, but afterward, I imbued it with Arthur's blood so that when the time came, only he could release it from the stone. I believe that since he was born of the Old Religion, that Kilgharrah's knowledge of the ages imbued with Arthur's magic and enabled the king to extract this information."

"That's incredible," Maxwell said. "If he'd received the sword sooner, we would have had an ally at the heart of the kingdom that much sooner. How many years ago was this?" Maxwell seemed to have a talent for stating the obvious no matter how uncomfortable or painful it might be to those in earshot. Both Merlin and Gaius realized the impact of his statement, however, and just a little while ago, Merlin had wished that, too. But, the warlock didn't blame his mentor for his intervention, knowing he was only following the orders of his king, and only Merlin and the goddesses knew how many mistakes he'd made himself over the years. If he'd told Gaius from the beginning what he'd been up to, their lives would have been different for sure; indeed, the world itself would not be the same.

"It doesn't matter," Merlin said gently. "He has it now and the sword revealed everything to him. It showed Emrys rescuing him, only those had been times that _**I'd**_ actually saved him. He saw me in my true form, Gaius. He knows I'm a warlock, a Dragonlord, but most importantly, he seems to have accepted it. He understands what it all really means for the kingdom, for everyone. Everything just unfolded. We just…talked. Surprisingly, he didn't raise his voice or throw anything at me. It was a little disconcerting at first. I honestly didn't know what to do."

"Remarkable," Maxwell whispered, recalling the catalyst of man, metal, and magic becoming one, how an aura sprang from the king the moment he changed his tactics to extract the sword with calm and a gentler approach instead of brute force and primal might. Magic had been awakened within the king, renewed, and now Maxwell knew, enhanced.

"I believe his perception has increased a hundred fold," Merlin divulged. "He's enlightened. He'll likely figure you out in time, Maxwell. It might serve you well tell him the truth, about everything."

The massacre of Helios' Rear Guard, the premeditated murder of the Southron sorcerers and the one that got away, the fire at Lord Gregory's manor and a host of other incidents where he'd used his magic all laid out to the king was not a pleasant thought. He'd performed all manner of unsavory deeds in the name of duty, killing a hard part of a knight's life, but not the end all. What mattered was that he'd saved someone's life or protected his lord's land or healed his comrade. He'd done some good, too. "That's some kind of magic, Merlin."

"I should say," the physician said. It had been ingrained in Arthur to despise sorcery since he was old enough to understand why and then expected of him to carry on the legacy by those who knew nothing of the prophecy, and that was mostly everyone within the kingdom and without. And who was this woman in Lake Avalon? He knew no such creature dwelling in the depths. What else had his ward kept from him and what now did he need to learn?

Merlin added, "We're going to let the Knights of the Round Table know, but for a time, it will still remain a closely guarded secret until we figure out what to do."

"Do you know what this means?" Maxwell asked.

"No more fear of death for being who we are," Merlin answered. "At least not from Arthur. The rest of the kingdom is another matter. We may have another battle on our hands." They all sobered then, three degrees of sorcerers mulling the future of their own existence. "Gaius, I'm sure Arthur would like you present when he addresses the knights. Do you feel up to it?"

Well, he may not know too much about this lady in the lake, but if what Merlin said was true, which he was sure it was, then one other lady may be able to return to Camelot if the king saw fit to pardon her. "Merlin, I may be tired and my legs feel like they're tree trunks, but I wouldn't miss this for the world. I'll run to the council chambers if I must."

"There's no need for that," Merlin said with a smile. "There's plenty time for me to get you there." Merlin's smile was wide again, his eyes brighter than the sun for the first time in years. "Take heart. Albion is on the rise."

…..

Geoffrey of Monmouth had seen it all, from the violent and barbaric period of the warlord Vortigern to King Uther's reign of terror, recording the rise and fall of both tyrannical rulers for over five decades. Now the pages of his annuls began the account of his newest sovereign, Arthur, only a few months as the king of Camelot and daring to embark upon his own provocative path. He'd asked two things from the librarian, one of which Geoffrey was delighted to chronicle, but the other had him thunderstruck.

"I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but you desire to do what?"

"Lift the ban on magic," the king repeated, trying to keep his eyes from drifting to the burly man's wild and overly large eyebrows. He remembered musing as a boy that a creepy crawly thing could nest in them and his tutor would never know the difference. "Once the proclamation declaring Guinevere's innocence is announced, I want to review the laws concerning magic and ease the rights of those who practice sorcery."

"I shall herald the news about Lady Guinevere through the halls myself, Your Majesty, but changing the laws is not an easy matter."

"No doubt," Arthur agreed. "But my power is absolute, and I'm certain my father had little problem enacting those laws in the first place." Uther had an iron will, one that Arthur aspired to yet despised whenever his father was unbending, especially when Arthur saw him in the wrong. Uther never liked being challenged and tightened his fists even harder when anyone defied him, Arthur himself not exempt from his father's retaliation at times when he stood up to him. "This will happen, Geoffrey. I want it done quickly and thoroughly."

"Yes, sire," Geoffrey consented with a bow and a twitch of a smile on his lips.

"Any use sorcery against the crown in an ill manner will remain an act of treason," Arthur declared. "Any violence against my citizens or the kingdom with intent to harm is also punishable by death. That will not change."

"Well," the historian cleared his throat, "offenses brought before the crown could be taken on a case-by-case basis and judged by the severity of the crime. Harmless magic, perhaps, enriching the harvest, for instance, is a benefit for all and therefore not punishable."

"Now you're getting it, Geoffrey," the king said with a wry grin. "It pleases me that you are not opposed to my amendments. Thank you for your loyalty. I will need it in the coming days."

"To be honest, my lord. It's about time." Geoffrey cleared his throat again and shuffled his bulk at the look of surprise from the king. "I have long awaited this day and have prepared for you all the documents that your father sealed, and a few that he did not."

Arthur raised his brows now, secrets of the past the running theme it seemed. Merlin said there were more people willing to help, but Geoffrey wasn't one that came to mind first. The man was a stickler for rules, never yielding and always in proper form. The historian obviously never agreed with all of Uther's laws and revolutionary changes, preserving some of the forbidden texts that didn't suffer the pyre or had been sealed and locked away. What would he find in those secret parchments that Excalibur had not already revealed to him? How many terrible wrongs will he find within them?

"I see." What more was there for him to say? Then something from the past suddenly struck the king, a wrong that needed to be righted and was personal to him. "Geoffrey, let it also be known that Thomas the blacksmith is hereby pardoned for his crime of treason. He was an honorable man and unjustly executed. The crown begs to be pardoned."

"That is highly unorthodox, Arthur. Kings do not make mistakes."

"This one does and far too often."

"Yes, Your Majesty, but let us not go public with that just yet. Perhaps, the last part can be your humble appeal to the Lady Guinevere. I'm sure she would appreciate your, um, personal sentiment far more than some of the nobles would."

"Of course," Arthur relented with a smile, well aware of the importance of always appearing infallible to the people, to never show his detractors an inkling of weakness else they'd wield it against him. "There is one other matter before you go. Several of my vassals did not rally to Sir Leon's call to battle. Choose four of the richest of them to submit to the authority of the king and strip them of their titles. I want their property and lands seized and granted to my four knights, including Sir Leon, save have a parcel of land for the evicted, however. Levy a thirty percent tax on the rest of them and distribute the holdings to the wounded knights and soldiers as well as to the families of the fallen."

It was a harsh judgement for the unsuspecting lords and ladies who knew nothing of the hardships that would befall them, but it would send a clear message across the kingdom that King Arthur demanded loyalty, though he'd earned it from the day he was born, for the sacrifices he'd made and endured for them all. "That will take some time, sire."

"You best get started then."

"Of course, my lord." Geoffrey bowed as deep as his bulk would allow. Making his mark indeed, the librarian thought. King Arthur was well on his way to exceeding the deeds of his predecessors, outshining them both in a blaze of honor and glory. Geoffrey's smile was barely perceptible as he closed the door and turned, only to be chest to face with Guinevere, her towering watchdog a few paces behind her.

…..

Apologies for the long narrations between some of the dialogue. I felt that the sentiments spoken needed to be explained given the intent of the chapter. I hope it wasn't too distracting or disjointed, but let me know and I'll try to fix it. Thanks for reading!


	22. Objects in Motion

For Nim'14, someone who's had another kind of influence on the story and for her devotion. I wish I had been able to respond to some of your feedback. They were encouraging and inspiring. Thank you.

Many thanks to KIMMIKY for the wonderful feedback. She always manages to help bring magic to my words.

IDO Merlin.

…..

Chapter 22 Objects in Motion

It had barely been a full hour since Gwen left his chambers and yet the king had sent for her already, an urgent summons the page had said. She wasn't ready to face Arthur so soon, especially finding out about Princess Mithian, the aborted union that may or may not have resulted in an intimacy she had never been privileged to share with the king. Though she had to doubt at least some of Morgana's vitriol in that regard, she would have thought Arthur still too honorable for that. Maybe. The doubt could not be dismissed as easily as she had thought. She'd felt such resentment as she had never experienced before and wished the named Princess were here now so the bear baiting might commence. But she was long gone, back to her perfect castle in her perfect kingdom and without the whiff of a betrothal in sight. Gwen could not pursue her so she attacked her own brother instead.

Meeting Elyan head-on and slapping him with hefty doses of humility and shame despite looking as if he just wanted to apologize and forget had been somehow therapeutic. She'd been hard on him, uncompromising, called him a coward before she left in a blaze of fury and fire and a few more "friends" lined up to singe. Her temper still had not abated. She did wonder in a vague sense if her own less than calm approach was merely the result of all those years of pent up emotion finally being given voice or the product of being exiled, since even when she had scolded before it had never been in so harsh a manner. She could only count it as a good thing that she had it in her at all.

Those people on her mental list of kindling would have to wait, however; she had to obey the wishes of her sovereign even if he apparently chose to ignore her request for some distance from him. Gwen sighed outside the king's chambers with one glance back at Fredrick, supposing that she'd get that distance soon enough, that now would be as good a time to tell Arthur that she was leaving Camelot as any. When the door suddenly opened and a mass of robes and color waddled out of the room and edged her backward, she automatically backed up with them, the man they belonged to not having seen her.

"Oh! Lady Guinevere," Geoffrey started, a hand going to his chest before he bowed with unsteady effort. "Welcome back to Camelot. These halls have been void of your delightful presence for far too long. It is good indeed to see you again."

"Is it?" Gwen retorted, then realized she was biting into the wrong person and mentally withdrew her fangs with a shake of her head. Geoffrey had given her a modicum more respect after she had stood up to the council during the incidents with the Dorocha, but she could not remember such effusive greeting ever being afforded her before. "Forgive me, Geoffrey. Returning home hasn't quite turned out the way I'd expected. Thank you. I'm pleased to see you as well."

"Things will brighten soon enough for you, I'm sure." The king's proclamation regarding Lady Guinevere's innocence would be his first order of business. Arthur had given him enough information to write a riveting edict that would clear her good name and standing. And honestly, he had been intrigued with the young maiden for many years. Her humble beginnings, those frightful accusations of sorcery, one of them surrounding her relationship with the prince now turned king, and then her unfortunate encounter with the witch's spite resulting in a banishment. She seemed to have survived with extraordinary aplomb rarely seen even in Camelot's unusually active halls. Guinevere's remarkable, yet gripping life demanded an audience. "My lady, when our great city shines again after these dreadful executions, perhaps it would help to speak to someone about your experiences. A few of my scribes could record your life and times, and I would be honored to chronicle some of it myself. After all, you will be Queen one day, and we owe it to posterity to preserve the truth."

Gwen wasn't so sure about that, either that her life was at all noteworthy to be recorded nor her chances of becoming Queen. She loved Arthur, too much. Perhaps she always would. But right now, she did not like him very much. She was still furious and disappointed with him, not ready to trust so easily as before, the ache in her heart at their separation inconsequential in the face of finding her own worth wholly unconnected to the king. "We shall see," Gwen replied, hoping the ambiguity of her answer was enough to placate the historian.

Geoffrey nodded, appeased for now. "Until then, Lady Guinevere. Good day." He bowed once more, lowly as if she had already been crowned before skirting around her, and Gwen, following his departure with a gaze, was sure there was a skip to the bulky man's step as he hurried away.

The interlude with Geoffrey was enough to somewhat cool her down from her fiery encounters with Elyan and Morgana, but not enough to stand on ceremony and haughty pride when she curtsied upon entering Arthur's chambers. As much to spite Geoffrey's careless assumption, she would just give in as much to prick Arthur's conceit.

"Please don't do that, Guinevere," Arthur pleaded, coming from behind his desk and approaching her. She lifted her chin, but not in defiance, her point made already. To continue would just look childish, and so her features softened at his request to desist with formalities. Even whilst they had been together and one of them stood on rocky ground with the other, she had not behaved in a manner so intently hurtful to him. How could he not blame her, though? "I don't expect things to change between us so soon, and it breaks my heart that you see me only as your king, but I need you as my equal right now."

Gwen should have known Arthur couldn't tolerate her return to protocol for long, she herself disappointed that she had ever employed the tactic at all. It was immature actually and she would relent to this one earnest plea, but that was the most she'd concede. Gwen had other weapons in her armory and so took aim accordingly. "Perhaps, Princess Mithian is better suited in that role." Far from what she'd been summoned for, she weighed it important before going any further. "I understand you entreated a marriage proposal with her."

A frustrated groan escaped, and Arthur looked down and away. Gwen just would not stop hurting him, the slings and arrows she unremittingly hurled causing fresh wounds to split open and bleed out. "It did not begin as that and you know it." There was a challenge in his tone when he looked back at her, his eyes holding more disappointment than provocation. "You were one of the few privy to the treaty with Nemeth before this whole affair began and that we still had not come close to anything agreeable. What I had not had chance to tell you were that negotiations had all but deteriorated until their final proposal came. You were already gone by then, Gwen, and I felt I'd never see you again. It was strictly a political move that I thought was necessary at the time for the sake of two kingdoms. I realized very quickly it was just another impulsively bad decision and I was wrong to ever entertain such terms. But you must understand I was not thinking clearly, Guinevere. Part of me had left with you, and I was not myself. Forgive me. I was a fool."

It was his deepest apology yet and if she could just accept it, she could move on, let the rest of it go. She should count it favorable that he'd chosen her over a princess and the chance of forging a viable, strong unification of kingdoms for decades to come, yet choosing to have nothing at all if he did not have her, risking war even with little prospect of ever reuniting with her at the time. So why should such an act of true love matter, then? Why did her heart soar and break at the same time if she did not care about him? It was bad form to compete for the affections of a man, a black mark of insecurity. And then again, with his trust already broken, would his defense, or what he thought of her, make any difference? Gwen dared to find out. "How quickly? Hmm? How many nights did you sleep with her to discover that, Arthur?"

He had to admit he had not seen that coming, reeling back from the shock of it. She'd never spoken so boldly before and it distressed him that she thought him even capable. Arthur leveled piercing blue eyes on her, his lips in a slight frown. Who had she heard that tale from to form such an opinion? Whoever they were, they could mean nothing good. But it was her first mistake, her first true miss in her strikes against him, an attempt to diminish his honor that held no merit.

"That never happened, Guinevere. The truth is I kissed her in the council chambers. To make a point. To let her know that my heart belonged to another and that I could never love her the way she wanted and deserved. There was no desire for Mithian, no fire, nothing like that which burns for you. She was beautiful, Gwen, but she was not you. I shall always be yours, for I am not whole without you in my heart and I in yours. What must I do to prove that?"

He had come to the very edge of her personal space again and everything radiant about him reached out and grabbed hold of her senses, threatening to once again tear down her fragile shield and expose her inner self to his scrutiny, his desires, his body. Gwen felt his very essence wrap around her, weakening her reason. She cursed Morgana for being so manipulative and herself for believing, knowing what she was. Arthur may not hold her trust now but she did know his honor. She'd been acting with retaliation unbecoming when he'd been flourishing somehow, so different now since pulling Excalibur from the stone, more confident and less arrogant, and yet, the same vulnerable man she had loved all these years.

Still, Gwen was too guarded, too wounded to give him any leeway. "That is what you must discover, Arthur."

She glanced away at the visible crumbling of his hope, the crestfallen look of a man who'd lost, herself weakening further from the vitriol that would not stop spewing from her. This new taste of bitterness was draining, distasteful, and she was beginning not to like it but somehow she could not stop it. "Not that it matters." Her eyes found his again, those dejected blue orbs staring back at her speaking volumes she tried to ignore. "You should know that I'm leaving for Longstead tomorrow, before the executions."

Her words penetrated his mind only slowly, but when they did stick, even the ruckus outside seemed to have come to a standstill. Nothing was left in him except the deepening frown of his lips and the hardening of his gaze. He couldn't move, her blow fastening him in place. So he just stood there, threading the pieces of her militaristic posture as he would any other combat tactic, of her valiant effort to defeat him, her battle of the heart victorious and crushing his with surgical precision. In all, he did deserve it. But he could not earn her forgiveness if she were five leagues away.

"No, Gwen," he finally voiced with a slow shake of his head. "That's not going to happen. As I said before, we're not going to run from our problems. I will give you as much time and space as you require, I promise, and as much as I need you now, I will not summon you again. When you are ready, I beg you call for me. If we are ever to reconcile, and in my heart, I know we will, we must not let distance bar our way."

"My mind is made up."

Stubborn woman! Where had this newfound intractability come from? She would need it as queen when the time came. Now, however, it was an irritant since it merely masked her vulnerability and undermined her rational decision making. A step closer and he towered over her, taking full command, but Gwen held her ground and stuck her chin out in defiance, her gaze as sore as his.

"I almost lost you once. I can't bear to lose you again. The countryside is far too dangerous for travel right now."

"Fredrick—"

"Is not enough."

"The knights—"

"Are needed here." Arthur hated denying her anything especially with things so tenuous between them. He felt this as spiteful retaliation to keep her here, but she was staying one way or the other, and she still did not know why he desperately needed her to remain at his side. "I love you, Gwen. I need you here."

"I no longer belong here." That was just as painful to admit as the rest of the realizations recently come to bare. This was her home, and to feel unwelcomed by friends and loved ones left her barren, those same feelings of stark aloneness and abandonment that she'd felt during her exile smashing into her once again.

"You're so wrong, my love. These are dark times for us and you're the only bright light here, Guinevere. Look around. Tomorrow our streets will be lined with dead soldiers. I'm about to have my _**sister**_ executed for high treason! There hasn't been this much bloodshed since the time of the Great Purge, an evil started because of my very existence, and now this war is because of me. I've never killed like this, but Guinevere, no matter how needful these actions are, I can't do this without you."

Gwen snapped out of her own misery at the rising alarm in the king's voice and the haunted look in his eyes. It reminded her of the few times Arthur had been lost in one of his bad dreams, clinging to her for life as he fought some subconscious demon. She was who she was and dropped all concern for her wounded honor and reached for him, allowing a small measure of consideration to him for once. "What is it, Arthur? Something else has happened."

"More than you can possibly imagine." Arthur took a shuttering breath, grabbing hold of the little comfort she was offering, yet wishing it were more. "Do you know why the Purge began?"

"Of course. Magic was rampant throughout the kingdom. More and more sorcerers were despoiling the land, hurting people in horrible manners. Your father outlawed it."

"Guinevere, do you know _**why**_ the Purge began? The real reason."

The strain in Arthur's voice gave her pause, knowing that she'd recited an abridged version of what every child learned about the Purge by rote. Was there more to what they had been told? She had lived through it, everyone over the age of twenty-six had in fact, but she and they had been too young to remember the onset, only the terror and that there had been fewer pyres and axes by the time she could truly understand the fear that had gripped the kingdom. She shook her head no.

Arthur did not need Merlin to fill in the holes in this account, Excalibur all but confirming what he already learned from his mystical encounter with his long dead mother called from beyond by the sorceress Morgause. He still felt bitter at Merlin having to lie in order to pull him back, though he wasn't sure if that was due to the lies themselves or that he had so lost his head they had been necessary in the first place.

"My mother could not have children and my father, in a desperate pact with a High Priestess, bargained for an heir: me. But my mother's life was the price. I truly believe my father…lost his mind then." That was new, a buried truth that he'd never wanted to admit aloud. It was hard to see his father in the light, as he truly was. As others had seen him, not as indomitable as Arthur's clouded vision, but as a man terribly flawed with fear and resulting horrific decisions. "He blamed every sorcerer since for the death of my mother and not himself." Arthur let the water that strained red eyes fall when he closed them. "I was born of magic, Guinevere. I'm to blame for all of my kingdom's misery."

Gwen gasped as she covered her mouth. Such cruel design, so pitiable and perverse a way for him, of all people, to be conceived. But it made sense now, how relentless the former king had been with sorcerers, how he'd twisted the truth, buried it actually to cover for his own thoughtless and foolish mistake. Poor Arthur. Should she hold him? He needed to be held, her caring nature reasoned, but yet she drew back mentally. It was no longer her place. Down that road lay the deconstruction of her own intentions, so all she could offer was a gentle hand on his arm.

"I almost drove my sword through my father's chest years ago when I found out, but Merlin stopped me. Told me that it had all been a lie. That I'd been tricked, and killing my father was what she'd wanted all along."

"She?"

"Morgause. Her first attempt to strike at me and bring down the kingdom, by my hand if she had succeeded."

"You seemed to have been fighting all your life for Camelot." Her first kind words since they'd found out about her enchantment and Arthur manage a small smile, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

"And I'll most likely die for her."

Oh, so likely, Gwen thought with a heavy sadness. "Don't speak of such things. It will be a great loss to us all the day you are taken from us." She was slipping into old routine and Arthur saw it, too, the flicker of hope ready to burst into flame. She withdrew her hand and dropped her gaze, the danger of a relapse clear and present. Why did he have to be so loveable?

"Guinevere, a time of great upheaval is upon us. The world is about to change. I have no choice but to put an end to the persecution of those with magic."

Gwen's breath hitched. They've lived a strict and reliably terrifying way for twenty-six years, fear of magic was all they knew. "You're going to lift the ban? Is that wise after all the bloodshed?"

Arthur brushed around her, reaching for Excalibur on the table and then handing the sword to her. The skillful maiden inspected it carefully and with not a little shock and awe. It was different certainly than when she had passed the blade over, more ornate and somehow even more perfect than her father had managed, but she recognized it as soon as she held it.

"This is my father's sword, the finest he'd ever made. I gave it to Merlin years ago. For you." She gave it back to him. "The fuller is different, but the weapon was crafted by my father."

"I know. It was re-forged in dragon's breath and…has magic, too. Magic that only I can access."

Her heart started to beat strangely within her chest, her fingers lifted, resting between her ribs rubbing away the ache caused by such frantic pounding. Magic had been outlawed and considered so dangerous for all of her life; she'd be cursed by it far too often it was instinctive to shy away.

"What are you saying, Arthur?" The tremor in her voice must have given her away for Arthur gave her a look of such gentle understanding. Of course, he would know how she was feeling.

"I think it woke the spark of magic that I had within me and it shared the knowledge of the ages. I've seen the past, the present, and the future."

Gwen gasped with incredulity and an involuntary half step backward.

"This weapon has revealed the truth about magic. That it isn't an evil thing to be feared. We just don't understand it and our ignorance has caused this kingdom to suffer greatly…I have to change that…It's the only way to heal the land and the people."

"Are you sure it isn't just enchanted to make you feel that way? To…to influence you into lifting the ban? You know that is how your councilors will see it no matter what you or I truly think."

"I don't intend to tell anyone else about Excalibur for the very reasons you pointed out, but you handled the blade, both before and after the dragon fire forged it anew. Tell me, does it feel any different?"

"No. It feels…like a sword, a weapon of fine precision."

"Indeed. The magic just seems to impart information, good and bad. A repository of all that we have missed. There is no influence save what I might expect from the council's reports on the state of the kingdom. It's just knowledge; what I do with it is up to me. It is I that have decided the kingdom's stance on magic cannot continue."

"That's very noble, Arthur. But even with this new gift, there will be strong opposition; you must know that. So many have lost a loved one to magic. There's too much fear, distrust, and blood between the sides."

"Do you realize you called it a gift and not a curse?" Arthur was pleased and gave her a small triumphant smile. "I believe there are more with a desire to lift the ban, that more want freedom from the confines of stagnation that my father and I are the cause of than those that would not. It won't be easy for any of us, and no doubt it will take years for things to stabilize, but with you by my side…"

"I cannot. I'm leaving, remember?" The reminder was like a slap in the face. Back to this again?

He could stop her with a command, but if he forced it, it would make it that much harder for her to trust him. What reserves did he have left? Arthur took her hand and then smoothly took a knee, placing Excalibur at her feet. Her rigidity from his touch eased as he gazed into her eyes, tenderly, slowly rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. The faintest hint of lavender wafted to his nostrils, just enough to feel the blood in his veins course hot and fast, water his mouth with desire, and reel his mind back to times when things were more intimate between them.

"Please don't leave me, Gwen. I know in my heart that without you as my queen, I will fail no matter what Destiny has planned for me." He'd seen her happy, the children they were destined to have. He just prayed that that future had not been lost because of Morgana's treachery and his thoughtless treatment of her.

 _His queen_. Her yearning to be his wife through long days and even longer nights before and after the disaster had not completely died within her she was sure now. He deserved her scorn just as much as she deserved an interval away from him. She'd had no time to think, to sort out her feelings away from the frenzy and constant reminders all about her. She wanted to leave and return when she was ready whether it was to Arthur's arms or to an existence without him even if it took days, months, or years for her to decide. She was willing to sacrifice that stretch, yet he hadn't afforded her even an hour.

He'd surrendered in grand fashion, however. His show of humility and desperate plea to help him, _**his**_ _**magic**_ , could she leave now with him and the kingdom in such a delicate state? Worlds were about to collide. Lives were about to be altered, a different reality shaped by the very man at her feet. Truly, did she want to miss out on all of this?

Arthur carried a heavy burden on his shoulders, and desiring with all his heart that she stand beside him exhilarated and terrified Gwen. He was about to embark on an extraordinary journey and was clear that he did not want to do it without her. Before all this, Gwen would remind him that he wasn't alone, sometimes gently and sometimes not, and he'd reluctantly let her carry him on a few occasions, easing some of the weight that tore him down. She'd missed being there for him, once believing that she'd never leave his side no matter how resistant to aid and obstinate he could be. Now it was all she could do to stop herself from running headlong into the maw of the beast she had come to realize love could be.

"Arthur…" Her throat was tight and dry.

"If it takes a thousand lifetimes to feel your arms around me, I will wait. As it is, I need you now more than ever. I am nothing without you, Guinevere. Search your heart, my queen. Has the love you once held for me truly abandoned it?"

He was so sure that she would be queen, kept reminding her in near every sentence, but Gwen wavered each time she heard it. For Goodness sake, it had only been a blink of an eye since their private battle began and he was cutting through her armor of resistance already, reasoning that everyone made mistakes and knowing that she'd be the first to point that out to anyone else facing a difficult decision such as hers. Everyone deserved second chances, and with that her resolve shuddered, Arthur's persistence and volley of affection resonating, the resultant vibrations snaking minuscule cracks across the surface of her shield, now as fragile as crystal.

"A great destiny has been set before me and I am exceeding troubled by it," Arthur said softly, gently squeezing her slender hand. "There's an ancient prophecy about a king bringing forth the time of Albion, a Golden Age of peace. I am that king, Gwen. You are the Queen destined to help me achieve that…"

He kissed her hand softly, moist lips brushing across her knuckles, his breath hot and sending a warmth through her groin. Her mind fogged over, conflicting with the happier memories of the past and the imposing truths of the present.

"Oh, Arthur." Gwen dropped her shield completely, shattering it at her feet, and allowed his very being to absorb into her psyche. Silk flaxen hair called to her fingers, inviting them to run through. Clear blue eyes full of love and hope mesmerized her, fair skin and strong jaw waited to be caressed, fine hairs peaking from under his fiery red shirt beckoned to lie against. It was hard work being angry all the time, she thought as she relished his simple, yet erotic touch. It was draining on the body and more burdensome than just letting it go. Forgiveness lifted the soul and freed the spirit—

"… and Merlin, too," he finished with a whisper.

Gwen snatched her hand back, chafed. Those glass shards of shield sent reflections sharp as any sword bouncing into her skull, knifing through the dream he had built again. "Merlin?" Sometimes Arthur could be so insufferable. Merlin's clumsy feet complimented by the king's clumsy tongue. Obviously, there was more on Arthur's mind, risking his chances of her reconciling with him by bringing the man up during such a romantic gesture, especially with Merlin still out of favor with her. She should have known his manservant would come up eventually, always there at Arthur's side and the king seeming to want it that way. He cared about his servant very much, rarely would he say so, but known to most all. Somehow, it always ended up a threesome with them, a full circle, harmonious when things were in balance. Remembering what they once had suddenly become painful, an unexpected and unbeknownst hit by Arthur.

Arthur stood up, grasping Excalibur in the rise and looking a bit sheepish upon realizing his blunder. As much as he ached to hear the words "I forgive you" or "I love you" from her lips, there was much more he needed to share with Gwen before convening with his knights so he blurted it out without further preamble.

"He's a sorcerer." Merlin's secret would be safe with him from everyone except his future wife and his most trusted knights. He would not keep this from them, Arthur absolutely positive that it would take his and Gwen's united strength and the valor of the knights to even begin such a daring endeavor, at least he hoped that and that would be enough to keep Merlin safe through it.

Gwen's hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers. Both of them! Arthur's magic was somewhat benign and very new, but to know that someone close to them actually practiced the art was overwhelming. This was the least of what she had expected.

"You have nothing to fear, my love," Arthur reassured her. "He's been protecting us with his magic this entire time. Never once did he use it against us." Arthur ran his fingers through his hair then palmed the side of his face. "Believe it or not, he's the old sorcerer who tried to heal my father."

Gwen's face scrunched with revulsion and disbelief before realization set. "The one who saved me from the pyre when Uther thought I had enchanted you." She held her breath, other instances she had dismissed without a thought coming back with a vengeance. The one who'd cured her father from that magical plague years ago, the one the lamia feared, the one who spoke strange words during a poison-induced fever. The list went on, and not just on her behalf. Merlin had been very busy for a very long time, indeed.

"I knew it." Gwen almost giggled, giddy in fact, but she gasped again instead, one last piece flitting into place. "He said he was in disguise that very first time I met him in the stocks. I thought he was joking." This time she did giggle. "The more we became friends, the more protective he became. More secretive, too, I suppose, him knowing more about the happenings around here than any of us. Always one step ahead. I always knew there was something about him. I just couldn't put my finger on it."

Arthur scoffed, remembering those same words he'd said to Merlin only a few days after he'd met him. "You and me both. He'd even admitted being a sorcerer in front of the whole council to save you after your father was miraculously cured during the Afanc plague and I didn't believe him. He's fooled us all." A short silence stretched into longer moments, both of them drifting off and recalling stranger times of dealing with Merlin over the years.

"You don't seem to be too upset about it," Gwen said curiously, coming out of her musings. "He's lied all this time. Aren't you the least bit angry?" She couldn't say she was all that angry either, though, come to think of it. She wondered what significance his magic held in light of the bracelet's discovery. Was this why he'd never said anything? His evidence brought about by magic? But Gwen couldn't think on it now. There was too much else she had to contend with.

"God knows I want to be. But how can I? I know his intentions have been honorable because of this." He jerked Excalibur indignantly in his hand. "This showed me everything that he's done—or damn near—and yet his heart has never changed despite the persecutions of his kind or how unfair I've been to him over the years. He's had every opportunity to kill my father and me for all that we've done, and yet, he has stood beside us. A silent ally; a powerful warlock living in the shadows all the while hoping beyond hope to one day bring about Albion. He could have served to his own king, Cenred, or another kingdom, but he chose to stand by me because he believes in me and what we can achieve together, all of us."

This was the man she'd fallen in love with, a man able to not only recognize his own shortcomings but also to accept them, move beyond harmful tradition for the betterment of his people, shed his arrogant airs and selfish wants and to truly forgive from the heart. He'd said things would be different when he became king, though it had been a promise to be with her, to court her properly, to marry her. This was so much grander than just the two of them, so much more significant.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, her eyes glistening with anticipation.

"I haven't had much time to think about it, really, but…I have a few ideas…"

…..

It was the finest establishment Tristan ever slept in since he began to make his own way in the world, even if the two-room chamber were an utter ruin when they'd first arrived, furniture laying broken and despondent, tapestries ripped, walls nearly stripped bare, imported décor strewed about and in some cases, shattered. And neither did it matter that he'd slept upright in an oversized chair next to Isolde's large four-post bed and that his neck now had a severe crick and his back as taut as bowstring. The chambers were light, airy; a few windows paned with real glass lined the north wall and opened to a spectacular view of the forest, away from the ruckus in the courtyard. Tristan was glad for that. His Isolde would need serenity for her recovery. He massaged his neck and stretched before landing his eyes on his beloved.

Isolde had been washed and dressed in a white cotton shift by three maidservants, the only time Tristan was not allowed to be by her side. Clothes for her were hung in an ornate wardrobe, a modest pink dress with lace and ribbons that he knew would never touch her body, but he imagined she'd look lovely in it anyway. He couldn't resist the allure of the hot scented bath that they'd prepared for him, either. It'd been a long time since he'd enjoyed such a luxury, cold lakes and streams he often had to resort to being off the trail most of the time only appealing when Isolde joined him. His own clothes were taken to be cleaned, a blue linen shirt and black trousers laid out for him in the interim. The servants were accommodating and respectful without the wild-eyed silent fear and nervousness of those ground beneath the heels of their supposed betters; meals brought in on a regular basis and the remains efficiently and quietly removed afterward, usually with a smile.

With his beloved resting comfortably on her side and still unconscious, Tristan spent his time yesterday setting the chambers right as quietly and as best he could with one of the staff who'd lingered after coming to collect the lunch tray in order to help. In the end, it didn't matter how much noise they made, not even when they'd moved the table back to its accustomed position and the skinny young man's hands had slipped. The reverberating thud had made them both turn toward the bed, but Isolde never stirred then, nor during his timid redress of salve and fresh bandages on her terrible gash, all of it going unnoticed in her long and peaceful slumber.

Tristan sat up as he massaged his neck, moaning at the warped muscles in his shoulders and back, the bones creaking as he twisted left and right. He must have drifted off and sometime during that time, his old clothes had been brought back in and hung in a matching wardrobe on the other side of the bed. He was befuddled. This treatment was meant for royals or nobles, not for commoners, and certainly not for known smugglers. He should know. He'd grown up in such environs, not that many knew that. Arthur might be surprised to learn of his origins in light of his opinions toward the upper echelons. Tristan had bad memories of his time living in luxury as the son of a successful spice merchant. He'd found early on that no amount of wealth could disguise the black-hearted villains which comprised the nobility he was used to dealing with.

As it were, Arthur had not turned out to be the scabby elitist Tristan vehemently believed all royals were. The merchant-turned-smuggler had experienced firsthand the greed and selfish nature that the high-born in his city demanded, skimming from the top and taking what little the poor had left and not caring whether it was enough for them to survive, only that next month's taxes had better be on time and in full. Arthur was an exceptional warrior, but he was young, and naiveté often accompanied youth. Perhaps the king was not aware that some of his liege lords used extortion and fear tactics to get what they wanted. Which was why, to Tristan's surprise, the king had offered him a position as an advisor in the treasury.

Guinevere, that pretty maiden with eyes for the king, had been right. He didn't know Arthur. The king had played the idiot so well when he'd first met him, apparently traumatized to the point of losing his mind for losing his kingdom that Tristan had no doubt he was a fool. Once he gained his senses and revealed who he was, Tristan railed against him every chance he got. A noble, a royal no less, would always revert to the expected norm he reasoned. All he was waiting for was the proof.

It never came, however, the young king rising above the mold others had sculpted for Tristan, his own family included. Arthur's servants, what few he had observed, appeared to be happy and he already knew that they loved him, would die for him. He could see why Camelot was worth fighting for, had joined the cause because he'd been struck by the devotion and admiration of Arthur's kinsmen, if not for the man himself. Of course, it was early still, now that Arthur was back in his element, Tristan reserved the right to change his mind once he was able to move about the castle and city. On the surface, everything seemed ideal. What would he find if he scratched a little deeper beneath the veneer of seeming perfection?

Tristan sighed, ever suspicious of everything and everyone since losing all he had to taxes and his kin's bigoted shortsightedness. That trait had served him well enough these past years as a smuggler, though his knack for alienating people and stripping them bare with a critical word or two aimed at their character or their actions allowed good opportunities to pass now and again. Now that he had time to spare for his soul-searching, he had to acknowledge that he'd gotten in the way of making a better life for Isolde because his pride had been too dented or some other damn thing that hadn't sat right with him. Arthur had been nothing but generous, his gesture to reward them undeniably sincere.

He had nothing tangible left to lose, except his Isolde. He'd left his family behind and counted them dead so long ago it no longer mattered to him. Isolde was his family now, and there lay a powerful need to provide for her. Yet, in the face of overwhelming odds, he remained obdurate, a selfish part of him rebelling and that which he gripped with both hands stubbornly. He wasn't so sure he wanted to leave a little thing called freedom and independence behind.

He'd gotten used to life on the edge, relishing it more than he had being a merchant from minor nobility. The clandestine dealings and dangerous encounters were thrilling and only heightened his thirst for more. He was his own man, doing what he liked when he liked. Was it too much of a sacrifice to let that part of him go? He had no land, no legacy, no money, nothing a real man had to offer the woman he loved, the children he might reasonably expect to have. That had all gone to his older brother, long may he rot in the tatters of his once great name.

But he wasn't getting any younger.

Their last cargo of wool and frankincense would have been enough to buy a patch of land, a couple of pigs and cows, and a chance at a quieter, safer life. But he'd be a farmer. A pig farmer. Was that to be his legacy, the best he could offer his beloved? He'd failed as a merchant, been turned away by his loving relatives to starve, and there was no real future in smuggling. Could he let this new opportunity pass? He'd be a bureaucrat, have a voice. The one prospect added responsibility he had never envied his brother. The outlook made him slightly less lightheaded compared to becoming a farmer, a thought that sickened him in all honesty. Tristan closed his eyes and massaged his forehead and temple. Isolde deserved so much more than his current predicament could ever provide and remaining in the king's service may finally set him on the path to fulfilling her dreams.

And he wasn't getting any younger…

"Oh no," Isolde rasped weakly, lids heavy but a spark returning to her large blue eyes. "I know that look."

Tristan leaped from the chair with a glow of adoration, his woes forgotten, and grasped her hand as he knelt beside the bed. "Isolde." He kissed her tenderly, briefly, just enough to say that he'd missed her. "Here." He reached for a cup on the bedside table. "Take some water." With cautious effort, she rolled onto her back as Tristan handed her the cup and then supported her head and neck while she drank. And she drank, emptying the cup to Tristan's satisfaction.

"How do you feel, beloved?" he asked, taking the cup and extracting himself to allow her to lie back comfortably once again.

"Like I've been in battle." The beautiful woman tentatively rolled her shoulders to flex the blades, gingerly stretching the twisted muscles of her back before grimacing with pain. "What happened?"

"Helios wounded you, carved up your back."

"I remember." Her eyes drifted toward recollection, glossed and far away. "There was ice and fire at the same time, shooting through my every nerve. I fell." Her gaze returned to Tristan as his grip gently tightened around her delicate hand. "I thought I was dreaming. I remember you holding me, a lingering kiss, and then blackness. The coldness was gone and I was wrapped in a blanket of … endurance, no. No, that can't be right. But I was warm, and protected, and loved. There was light everywhere. And color. It was all about me. Beautiful…"

"That was me," Tristan said with a lover's playful conviction and pulling her into a closer embrace. "Willing you to live. You can't get out of our bargain so easily, my love. You made a promise, remember?"

"That we would grow old together. I know." She lifted a hand to caress his face, in which he kissed the heel of her palm and then leaned into it. "But with this life, that may not be possible, Tristan. That's what you were thinking a moment ago, wasn't it?"

He could never hide anything from her, no matter how hard he tried to protect her. Isolde was extremely bright, a gentle realist, and always managed to worm the truth from him. He'd never known such fear before than when she'd come so close to dying. The dream they shared of sowing a quiet, boring life, small as it was, had almost slipped out of reach yesterday. He laid his head on Isolde's chest, timing his breathing with hers, grimly aware that one day one of them would shatter that dream if they did not change their ways soon. Arthur had offered him a chance for an honorable life yesterday, but dealing with money was just as dangerous, too. Some men turned feral if you meddled in their financial affairs. His resolve hardened, however. He was up to the job and could do no less than take him up on his offer. It was just hard to let go.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, shifting carefully as to not put his full weight upon her. "We're still in Arthur's great castle. Whatever you want, I'm sure they have it."

"You're trying to distract me, Tristan, but yes. I'd love a bowl of hot stew."

"As you wish." He kissed Isolde's forehead and stood up, strutting to a table and retrieving a silver tray with a matching cup and teapot. "I made this especially for you. Tea."

"I prefer a pint of mead, thank you."

"After the tea. This will help with the pain."

"So will the mead."

Tristan chuckled for the first time in days but then placed the tray haphazardly on the stand beside the bed, nearly tipping it over in his haste to assist Isolde when she attempted to prop herself into a more comfortable position to receive drink and food. "Easy. Let me help you." He put a pillow under her shoulders and two more to support her head and neck. Draping himself over her, his arms held loosely round her waist and shoulders in a gentle hug before pulling back, the blonde smuggler looked at her with deep concern. "You were seriously injured, Isolde. I thought I lost you."

"I'm sorry."

"You must give yourself time to heal. I'm here, my love."

"I won't ever forget."

He smiled warmly and leaned in to kiss her forehead, then went to prepare the tea. "I'll see to getting you food. It's barely warm, but this—" He handed her a cup with a hint of pride. "—I made myself. Crushed the leaves and everything. Your instructions are to drink the entire cup for it to be effective."

"They've domesticated you," Isolde teased with a playful smile, taking the tea and then a sip. Nearly gagging at the bitter taste, she did everything in her power not to grimace knowing how proud he was of his concoction. This wasn't tea, more like medicine in disguise. "Here I thought nothing could tame you."

"Only you, my love. I'd do anything for you, Isolde, even…."

The cup was at her lips when his hesitation and the sudden solemnity in his eyes caused her to pause. "Even what?"

Tristan took a deep breath. "Even change my ways," he admitted. "Arthur has extended an offer for us to remain in Camelot."

"And do what?" she asked with high skepticism. "We're smugglers. Criminals."

"Isolde, we lost everything with that last cargo, but still that was no guarantee that it would have been enough to get away from the wretched life we were living. Since I was so concerned about the taxes, Arthur thought it might be a good idea that I manage them."

"Investigate them, he means," she corrected, taking more tea.

"Something like that," he said with a grin and a wink of an eye.

"He would trust a known criminal in his treasury?"

"And I'd protect it with my life because that is so." Tristan took a deep breath and went to sit beside her, the irony of his new position not lost on him. There was a place for her, too, though he had not talked to Arthur about it, considering it much later in the interim. "You have a beautiful voice, Isolde. You could sing with the minstrels every day and fill these halls with the voice of an angel. You'd wear jewels and beautiful gowns…"

"Ha! You'll never get me into another dress again!"

Tristan grinned wide, too, knowing that a pink frilly, dress awaited his beloved because her leather halter was in shreds and he had no idea where her trousers were. He'd let her know about that later, but he couldn't wait to see her face when he showed her the delicate confection and told her she was expected to wear it. "We'll be pardoned soon, and this promises the flow of steady coin, a brighter future, and a better life for you."

She searched his face for any hint of his being coerced and Tristan, knowing she wouldn't just take his word in this matter, kept his face as neutral as possible. Whatever she saw, it satisfied her since she smiled that rare and beautiful smile reserved just for him and reached out a hand to cover his own. "For us."

…..

The journey from the keep to the council chambers was a strange one for Gwen. She'd traversed this route so many times before but never in such circumstances, the once exiled maiden now shoulder to shoulder with the king, with Merlin, a little-known sorcerer, and Fredrick, her ever-present shadow, trailing the proper distance behind. Arthur had insisted she walk beside him after she'd taken a servant's position next to Merlin, and though she'd reluctantly agreed, Gwen was well aware that assuming eyes and virulent murmurs would be tracking them all the way. But they hadn't, at least, not in the way she had presumed.

She'd gotten used to the stares ever since she rode into the square on a white steed and flanked by the prince's personal knights, right after Arthur took back the castle from Morgana two years ago. She'd slid gracefully from her mount and into his arms then, kissing him in public and then wrapping herself around his shoulders. Oh, the gawks they had received that day in the square, the spectacle they'd caused, but he'd been of the same mind and had embraced her warmly for all to see.

The very cautious maiden had received the full range of reactions from the people because she'd won Arthur's heart. From joy that a commoner could rise to eventually becoming the second most powerful person in the kingdom, through jealousy that she had managed where so many others had failed, to vehement opposition that an upstart peasant could one day rule over them. She'd learned to ignore them all, at least in public. Once, maybe thrice in the two years since their open courtship, behind closed doors, she'd unravel to the point of tears from the hard knocks, doubting her fortitude to stand against her relentless detractors. She was at the point now that she genuinely didn't care what any of them thought and would strike back if any had the nerve to oppose her. She'd let all see what unjustified exile, abandonment, and betrayal could do to a person, how a heart could be hardened, the spirit fortified, and nerves re-forged in steel, vowing to be no one's puppet from this day forth, not even Arthur's. She sighed quietly, somewhat resigned. Unfortunately, Destiny had had something to say about her resolution to control her own life. If she were to have anything to do with Arthur's plans, she'd have to sweep the rapids and go along with him, unsure really where it would take them now.

And now, if she didn't know better, she would have thought everyone already knew Arthur's intentions, at least in her regard, for there were far too many bows, curtsies, and lowered eyes of guilt and apology directed at her. It was quite a contrast from yesterday in the hospital when no one could look her straight in the eye and the hurtful whispers that followed her everywhere. To her astonishment, the majority made more effort to courteously address her than they did to acknowledge the presence of the king. Gwen slid a glance to Arthur thoroughly confused, but the monarch kept his gaze forward, a satisfied expression veiled in the slight curl of his lips.

Gwen narrowed her eyes at the familiar look on his face and started to speak, but they were at the council chamber before she could query him. Merlin stepped forward to open the doors and then stepped aside to allow them entry.

Sirs Percival, Elyan, Gwaine, and Ranulf turned at the creak of the great doors and Gaius made an attempt to stand, but bowed his head and remained seated instead. The stroll from his quarters had been more exhaustive than he'd admitted to Merlin, realizing it would be a long road to recovery from the ordeal Morgana had put them through.

Arthur strutted to the head of the table as the knights tilted their heads in due respect and Gwen stopped short at the opposite end, the place where she had always taken since Arthur assumed control of the kingdom. The king was pleased, though slightly wistful. He saw her now as he had in his vision, in fine silks and his mother's jeweled crown, and wished for her earnest desire for that, too. He'd pushed her, had thrown everything he had to get her to change her mind. She loved him, no doubt, but he'd muted it, diminished her pure amorous affections for him by taking from her the chance to come to terms with his actions on her own. To come to him when she was ready. He would have to suffer the consequence he knew were forthcoming. He may have earned her trust, but now he had to regain her love. He was about to be seated when Gwaine turned to Guinevere and suddenly kneeled, somewhat painfully since he was also still not completely whole, his luxurious hair nearly obscuring his serious expression.

"My lady," he said. "I've dishonored you. I've forsaken our friendship in a most grievous manner and I beg your forgiveness. I should have believed in you."

 _Good God! Was that really Gwaine being humble and courtly to her?_ Arthur smiled inwardly and went down on a knee, his head bowed.

"And I," Percival said, taking a knee as well. "I should have protected you." To Gwen's surprise and racing heart, Ranulf and Elyan also knelt before her.

"And I," Elyan echoed, though he looked directly at his sister with the saddest of countenance. "I should have defended you."

Gwen heard movement behind her and turned as Merlin and Fredrick lowered themselves to the ground.

"You would do us a great honor," said Gwaine, eyes still low, "if you could find it in your heart to forgive your servants."

Arthur lifted his eyes to meet his beloved's, hers glazed with confusion and mild shock. "Your innocence has been proclaimed in a declaration that is being heralded as we speak. The kingdom knows what Morgana did to you and Sir Lancelot, that you were under a spell and were not responsible for your actions. None of us are worthy of you for the parts we played, my lady, but we humbly ask your forgiveness."

It just wasn't fair. Gwen was still put off by them and had mentally played out her assaults against her so-called friends after dressing down Elyan. Now the proclamation of her innocence and their noble gesture of deepest humility and respect had taken her by surprise and near left her defenseless. It was a worthy offense and her eyes stung with tears as a flood of conflicting emotions threatened to consume her. Could she find the grace to forgive them after their heartbreaking mistake?

"Our bonds of trust have been broken," Gwen managed with strained authority, her voice cracking despite her best efforts. "With time, I'm hopeful we can re-forge them. Arise." That was the most she could give them, being taken off guard by their collective apology. It was a gallant effort, she admired it actually, and Gwen granted them a small smile, embarrassed from all the attention, but not enough that she couldn't maintain eye contact with them as they stood up and went to their respective chairs.

Upon waiting for Arthur, who motioned with a tilt of his head for Gwen to be seated first, everyone sat except Merlin and Fredrick, who stood behind their master and mistress attentively, faithfully.

"Merlin, take a seat," Arthur commanded. "You, too, Fredrick."

Merlin walked hesitantly to an open chair between Gwaine and Gaius looking for all the world as if he was one of those being led to the gallows, but Fredrick stuck fast where he stood, clearly conflicted.

"With respect, my lord, it is not my place to be seated at the same table as my betters. If you would permit, I will remain at my station."

Arthur looked from the soldier to Gwen and then rose to his feet. "Come before your king."

Without hesitation, the soldier stood before Arthur and kept his eyes forward. The two men hadn't been this close since Arthur plowed his fist into Fredrick's face just for telling him some hard truths. He could not fault the man for his devotion to Guinevere. She endeared that kind of loyalty from all men of honor.

"Now kneel."

"My lord?"

"Kneel, Fredrick."

Fredrick looked directly at the king, who remained as solemn as ever, that great sword now in his hand. "Oh, good God," the soldier moaned with a roll of his eyes, the terror on his face morphing into dawning realization. He knew exactly what was coming and wasn't sure he liked it one bit.


	23. The Lives of Men

A/N: Sorry for the delay, but a lot needed to be covered in this one and sorting it all out was a challenge. Thanks KIMMIKY for the help. It's always appreciated. IDOM.

…..

Ch23 The Lives of Men

…..

Arthur tapped Fredrick's left shoulder with Excalibur and then his right. "Arise, Sir Fredrick, Knight of Camelot and defender of the crown."

"Heaven help me," he prayed under his breath before rising to his feet. Arthur had a small smirk on his face as if he'd heard the comment and Fredrick wasn't entirely sure how to take the king pleasure in his discomfort. He was a knight of Camelot now, a place he'd never aspired to. His fellows who really knew him would do the same when they found out.

"Now, take your place beside Lady Guinevere. You'll remain her personal guard with no other duty than to protect her in my absence." Well, that didn't sound too onerous. It was what he'd been doing already.

"On my honor and my life, Your Highness." That was the easy part. Becoming a noble in the wink of an eye was another. He had a title now and being addressed as sir or my lord was a little unsettling to him. There was some measure of comfort in the entitlements that accompanied such rank and privilege, though he did wonder how often he'd be required to wear that confounded red cloak. It held few benefits, a hindrance in fact, like painting a large target on his back and a sign saying please shoot me. It was no more than a symbol of power, status, and identity coveted by the sons of nobility. No one else with any common sense would wear such an observable color. Please, God. Let his civilian clothes be enough.

"I know you will." Arthur was pleased with Fredrick's service and devotion to Gwen, safe in the knowledge that he would not leave her side even if he'd order him. The man was practically her shadow these days, no doubt also her friend.

The king returned to his chair and Fredrick sat in the vacancy on Gwen's left. Her proud and satisfied smile greeted him when he looked at his charge. He couldn't help but smile back, maybe for the first time in a long time. A few months ago, she was just an assignment, one of great importance of course, but with no real personal feelings involved. Their paths had never crossed enough for him to get to know her until he'd been singled out for such a mission. He could never have fathomed how entwined their lives would become, her presence as essential to his existence as breathing was. Perhaps, this wouldn't be so bad after all, cape notwithstanding.

"Welcome to the club," Gwaine drawled with a devilish smile. "You thought life was good as a soldier. Wait until the ladies see you in a cape. They'll be fighting to get it off of you." He wiggled his eyebrows to stress his point, his grin all teeth. A few snorts escaped from the other knights and the king just palmed his cheek. Gwen did not appreciate the comment either.

Fredrick rolled his eyes. There was his answer. Frivolity and the delights of the flesh. Nothing about the honor and danger of his new position, only a poor display of shallow minds. He was old, perhaps twice the age of the oldest of anyone in the room except Gaius. He'd had his fill of women since his wife passed long ago, and none of them could capture his heart. That now belonged to Gwen, the daughter he'd never thought to have, and right now, there was no room for anyone else.

Arthur reclined in his chair and paid each one of them a thoughtful glance, except Gwaine. His was more with annoyance. Percival sat to his left, then Gwaine and Merlin. Gaius was nearer Guinevere at the other end. On his right sat Elyan and Ranulf, and then Fredrick further down. He rested his gaze upon Gwen before flickering a glance to a rigid and uncertain Merlin. Where to begin?

"For some time now we've been under protection." The reaction was slow to come, confusion predominating the knights' expressions. They were the ones who provided security for the kingdom, a shield to its citizens. The last and best chance of defeating any threat did not need protection, nor did they want it.

"What do you mean, Arthur?" Ranulf asked, the dark-haired knight one of the king's oldest friends. He'd been with Arthur those early days upon meeting Merlin, was there with him during their clash in the market. Ranulf had played right along with his arrogance back then. The prince had withdrawn from that caliber of men shortly thereafter, and in time, so had Ranulf. Merlin's company proved more rewarding than the bullies in the knights' corps and Ranulf found the arms of a woman, his present wife Olivia. He had changed, too. They had all grown since then.

Somewhat ignoring answering the question directly, Arthur plowed on. The meaning would become clear shortly. "Percival, you reported two suspicious deaths you believe not the result of battle."

"Yes, my lord," Percival agreed. "We discovered the apothecary poisoned on Merlin's cot. He'd been dead long before we'd gotten there."

Merlin bristled, mouth dropping open in an unseemly manner. "What?"

"It was made to look like he was sleeping," Gwaine added, eyeing the warlock with a barely beheld twinkle.

"Could no one have told me this sooner?" Merlin was entirely indignant, grimacing at how he'd relished every moment of being back in his own bed last night. Several ways of torturing Maxwell flashed through Merlin's head. Maybe he'd include Gwaine and Percival, too, since he could see just how amused the knights were. "I slept in that bed."

"So did I," said Gwaine with a now much more conspicuous sly grin. Before then, he'd never realized what a great vantage point Merlin's room had. He'd witnessed the magic being performed by Maxwell to save that young woman's life, Isolde he learned was her name. "I didn't see any problem with it."

"Gwaine, you'd sleep with a—"

"Merlin," Arthur huffed in irritation, putting a stop to the banter before it started. Those two had a way of turning harmless teasing into foul insults not acceptable to anyone's ears, let alone a lady's. "We have more serious matters on hand. Percival, the one found in the officer barracks…"

"The battle never reached that part of the castle. He was the only casualty we found in the area. There were signs of a struggle. His throat was cut."

"Why these men," Gwaine voiced what everyone else had been asking themselves. "Why were they singled out?"

"Because they were sorcerers," Arthur replied. The quiet was instant. The intensity rose as troubled glances flew around the room, harder ones falling on the king. "Two out of the three in Morgana's service."

"Someone killed them before the battle," Gwaine surmised, his widened gaze the only indication of his shock.

"To increase our chances of defeating Morgana," the king emphasized. "Even she had been rendered powerless. Someone helped us." Confusion again crossed the faces of those not fully aware of the circumstances, as if it were very hard to grasp the meaning of Arthur's words.

"Who?" Elyan asked.

"Another sorcerer," Arthur said with conviction. "A powerful one." Silence greeted his bold assertion before their voices erupted in torrents of disbelief. Arthur heard every one of them.

"You've got to be kidding," said Ranulf, sounding more outraged than outright angry.

"That can't be," Elyan retorted, the denial was almost a snort. "We've stood well on our own merit."

"Jupiter's balls! Really?" Gwaine exclaimed, paying Merlin an amused, yet speculative glance. Merlin noticed and raised an eyebrow and stared back boldly while trying not to look guilty.

"Gwaine!" Arthur admonished just as Fredrick warned the other knight to hold his tongue. Such language in the presence of a lady, the future queen no less, was most inappropriate. He didn't care how friendly terms they might be on, but wouldn't tolerate such disrespect in front of her.

"Sorry, Gwen," Gwaine apologized, his embarrassment fleeting to return to the fray. "How powerful is he is, then?"

"Damn," cursed Percival under his breath. "That explains some." Contrast to his intimidating build Percival was by far more perceptive than most of his comrades.

"A sorcerer would stand a better chance of defeating another sorcerer," Gaius put his bit in. "I believe you may be right, sire."

Well played, Gaius, Arthur thought in the midst of their confused clamor. Of course, the man would have known about Merlin's magic. He was certain the physician had been protecting him, covering for him all along. At the tavern, indeed. Arthur had lost count how many times that excuse had worked for Merlin's mysterious absences. Partners in crime, they were. Defenders of the crown, indeed.

Still, he wondered if his servant had had enough time to travel to Camelot under the cover of darkness and steal into the castle teeming with the enemy. Did Merlin kill two sorcerers, render Morgana inert, and get back in time to fix him breakfast? He had looked a bit weary and he'd said he hadn't slept. Was he so powerful to accomplish all that in the span of a few hours? Arthur had not forgotten that Sir Maxwell had failed to return and not seen until after the battle. Could Merlin have had help?

"Hear me," the king said, calling for silence, "and do not take what I'm about to say lightly. This land has lived in darkness since the day I was born because my father was afraid of something he did not understand. Magic. A force that has been around since the beginning of time, the source that binds everything together and he tried to unravel it by way of genocide."

"That is a bit harsh, Arthur," Ranulf disputed indignantly when in fact everyone shifted uncomfortably at the utterance of the word. On some level, they all were guilty for their part in Uther's legacy, whether it was through the actual act of butchery or a blinding complacency for allowing it.

"It is the truth, Ranulf. My father was wrong. I was wrong." A king should never admit he was in error. Perfect was the sovereign, absolute was his word and divine were his deeds. Anything less could result in the loss of their respect and allegiance. It was a chance he had to take, however. These men he trusted and they had to understand the roots of his forthcoming decisions.

"My mother died at the hands of a sorcerer, and my father died at Morgana's." Ranulf was taken aback as were the rest of them, except for the few who knew the full account. Everyone believed that his mother had died in childbirth and Uther from a fatal wound inflicted by an assassin. Few knew about the magic, the role it played. "My father collaborated with a sorcerer so that my mother could conceive. I was born and she died, her death being the price in the bargain." It was not getting easier to hear each time he said it, it still hurt in more ways than one. The whole world would soon find out how they were misled and just how flawed Uther had been.

"When Queen Ygraine died," Guinevere said. "Uther struck out against everything magic in his rage and sorrow. He could never acknowledge his part in it."

"But I can," Arthur said boldly. Yet, in a moment's hesitation, he wondered what they'd think of him, if they would think less of him because he'd shown the same weakness. If they would call their king a hypocrite. He could levy all the blame on his father, condemn his legacy, and allege him mad. God knew that was absolutely true, but Arthur's armor was just as dented, his own legacy just as bloody.

"Not once, but twice, did I follow my father's footsteps. I consorted with sorcerers for my own selfish need. The last time was with a warlock in a desperate plea to heal my father's mortal wound. It worked, and he recovered for the briefest of moments before he succumbed to a counter curse by Morgana."

He saw it in their faces, the familiar glint of disdain that disappeared almost as quickly as the glares had come. It begged the question of whether they would have done any less if it had been their parent and the very same desperate choices had been before them.

"I broke my own laws, made an error in judgment because I could not bear to lose my father, and believe me, that is no excuse. I don't require your absolution, gentleman. I just needed you to know." Arthur allowed them a moment to absorb his words, each man to reconcile their own opinions of him.

"I, too, consorted with a sorcerer, sire." All eyes turned to Fredrick. He'd vowed to admit his offense to the king once he found out about Maxwell and what they'd intended to do. He'd reluctantly agreed, pouted almost like a child even. He became as guilty as the rest of them while fully understanding why they did it and the reasons for their secrecy. "Sorcery was all around us, impeding our chances of rescuing our kinsmen. Many lives depended upon our victory so our only recourse was to fight sorcery with sorcery. I would not be here now if it weren't for him." He gave them enough of the truth without implicating the knight, vague about when this had even taken place. Fredrick didn't think it was his place to reveal another man's secret. That was for their conscience to decide when or if that would happen.

Arthur considered Fredrick's words for a moment. "It seems that magic is everywhere, we can't escape it. Nor can we continue to fight this endless war without a terrible cost to one side or the other." Magic touched everyone's lives one way or another, one day or another. It could not be repressed the way he and his father had tried. Neither could it be ignored or avoided. "Our country has suffered enough and I cannot allow this legacy of destruction to continue. Therefore, after the kingdom stabilizes, new legislation will be introduced to lift the ban on magic.*"

Eyes widened, jaws dropped, teeth gnashed, and Gwaine only smiled. Merlin could not believe what he'd just heard and had done everything in his power not to overreact up until now. Fingers tapping on knees to expel some of the riotous energy within him stopped their maddening dance. Arthur was taking his time revealing the news about his magic and he was just about ready to jump out of his skin. The king still hadn't gotten round to it yet, but this he had not expected so soon. This could change everything.

"You're going to free magic?" Merlin's mouth was so dry it was all he could manage to say, but his eyes were bright and hopeful. He could see the road Arthur was taking now and his heart was pounding with exhilaration. He was going to explode for sure.

Gwaine whistled between his teeth.

"Just like that?" Percival asked.

"This can cause an insurrection, Arthur," warned Ranulf. "You're treading on dangerous ground."

Arthur leaned forward, elbows on the table and fingers laced. "A wise man once told me that there were a variety of people seeking to protect me." Gaius' smile was warm and wistful. "That one day I would learn what many were doing for me, for the kingdom. I must admit that I … I had a hard time wanting to believe what you were trying to tell me, Gaius. It was my duty to keep things as they were."

"Only a handful of people were responsible for the deaths your parents, Arthur," Gaius gently said. "Not the whole of them. Not everyone wants to see Camelot in ruins."

A reflective pause and meaningful nod, Arthur continued to present his case. "Another wise man told me that not all sorcerers were the same." He made a point to credit Merlin with a prolonged gaze, a touch of humility and gratitude on the sorcerer's face. Arthur scanned the faces of the knights again. "The proof is with the two dead sorcerers and Morgana's inert powers. I say again, a more powerful sorcerer is protecting Camelot and I cannot ignore what that means. He has saved my life on many occasions as well as yours and Guinevere's … He's been with us all along."

"He's been watching us?" Elyan asked warily.

"Perhaps he's omniscient," Ranulf wondered, wide-eyed and suspicious.

"That's a little disturbing," Gwaine grumbled only half joking and another sidelong glance at Merlin. Percival looked at him, too.

Arthur raised a hand for silence. "All I know is that he's had every chance to harm us but chose a more noble cause, and I'd rather have him as an ally than not."

"I don't like this," Elyan sneered. "Who is he?"

"You've all encountered him before which is why some may find him… objectionable…at first." Arthur paused for a moment, the room as still as the crypt below and certainly just as chilled. "His name is Dragoon."

"No," Ranulf protested, instantly recognizing the name.

Merlin nearly fainted from holding his breath for so long and depriving his brain of oxygen. "Are you serious?" he finally breathed, incredulous. He thought he was following Arthur's new trail, freeing magic so that he had the freedom to use his. But now he was just perplexed.

Gwen lowered her head, nibbling a lip to keep from smiling. Arthur was being exceedingly playful for a time so laden with uncertainty and risks. The king simply couldn't help himself if it tweaked Merlin's nose.

"That is only one of the names he is known by. The Druids call him Emrys." Arthur thinned his lips and cleared his throat then spewed out the rest. "The doddery old sorcerer that knocked you three on your arses and threw Ranulf against a wall." Well, he'd received a few punches, too, but never mind mentioning those not-so-stellar moments.

The men exploded again as they spoke over each other. It reminded Fredrick of the heated discussion he'd had with the knights of Clarwick when they discovered that Maxwell had magic. Only this time, the defenders of Camelot strangely didn't seem as concerned.

"Emrys!" Gaius exclaimed. "Sire, what are you saying?"

"He's a strange one, that one, sire," said Percival.

"His eyes seemed familiar," Elyan pondered. "He knew us by name."

"I broke my arm in that fall," pouted Ranulf, absently rubbing his left arm, the humerus bone long since healed and fully functional.

"Not all sorcerers mean harm," said Guinevere. "I'm sure he was just defending himself."

"He went out of his way not to kill us," Gwaine reminded everyone.

Merlin only stared at the king with wide, quizzical eyes, speechless. He _**was**_ serious.

Arthur's knights were baffling him, too. He'd predicted a little resistance to the sorcerer, indeed some degree of reticence. Instead, their own benign opinions of the old man were almost amusing. "I must say, I expected hardier opposition. No matter. Your reactions make this a fair bit easier. I'll need advice when I lift the ban and who better than someone who has already proven his loyalty. Emrys will become my formal adviser on all things magic. He's notorious by our making so I intend to reintroduce him to the people in small doses. He'll attend court on occasion until he's accepted. His primary responsibility will be a mission of peace. To extend our hand in friendship to the Druids and other magical communities."

A calm embraced Merlin as Arthur spoke, his words shaping the future that he'd always dreamed. He'd never been more proud of his king than now. Arthur's eyes had landed on him and Merlin paid him a fond, wide smile.

"What say you, Merlin?"

"He, uh," Merlin said, clearing his throat. "He's very old, sire, but I'm sure he'd like that." It was actually brilliant, he thought.

"Now wait a minute," Gwaine interjected, the first real opposition that caused Arthur to stiffen in his seat. He had expected some contention on this matter, but least of all from Gwaine. "What about Merlin?" Now it was Gwaine's turn to receive with questioning eyes. He scoffed. "Don't tell me you didn't know, princess. That's what all this is about, isn't it? To recognize those with magic."

"Right," Percival agreed. "Why can't he be court adviser?"

Arthur's mouth formed words but nothing came out and Merlin only stared at them like a startled buck. Gwen and Gaius exchanged glances with mouths wide open. Elyan sat tight-lipped and arms crossed.

"What?" Fredrick and Ranulf asked at the same time.

"You—knew?" Merlin squeaked, his face as crimson as Ranulf's cape. "Both of you?"

Percival shrugged. "I suspected right after Arthur changed his mind to flee Camelot instead facing Morgana and Helios." He then addressed the king. "You were acting very bizarre, my lord. As if you weren't quite yourself, almost like you were suddenly drunk. You followed Merlin's orders like an obedient … hound."

"Oh, did I?" Arthur asked, throwing daggers in Merlin's direction, that time in his life a blank slate. Judging by the clothes he'd worn and the smugglers' opinion of him, he could not deny that he was a poor specimen of a man.

"That, and when I turned around, I saw his eyes change color right before you started acting strangely. I'm sorry, sire. I'm glad he did it, though. We needed to get you to safety."

The king was not amused. "And you, Gwaine?" the king asked, rolling his eyes from a squirming Merlin to the grinning knight. It had been a day of startling revelations, so why should this news be any less shocking. "How long have you known?"

"I would say that first time I met him in the tavern. Plates don't fly off the bar by themselves and he was standing right next to them. But," he shrugged. "I'd had a few tankards by then and a couple of whacks aside the head, so I wasn't sure. That was until yesterday. I was in his chamber when that lovely lass was brought in. That was pretty amazing."

This time Arthur threw spears at Merlin. "Am I to assume you used magic to heal her?" Right under their noses, the man was constantly taking risks. Too compassionate for his own good, it was a wonder he hadn't been caught red-handed before now.

Merlin choked on his guilt and Arthur filed away the noise his servant made for future use and gave him an evil eye instead as he waited for an explanation. "To save her," Merlin finally croaked out. "Yes, sire."

Arthur bobbed his head, his lips pressed with annoyance that probably looked worse than he actually felt. In reality, it could not have played out better for the king. He'd been leading up to revealing Merlin's secret to them. Since Gwaine had outmaneuvered him, there was no need to delay any longer.

"You must show restraint, Merlin," Arthur urged, this part of his plans the most complex and likely a condition not too agreeable to his younger friend. "Your friends here may accept you, trust you, but we cannot expect the same reaction from others. We have to assume the worst and expect retaliation. The only way I can think to protect you is to keep your magic a secret for as long as we can manage it or the fear of it abated." It wasn't easy telling his friend that he couldn't use his magic when it was imminent to be legal. It was almost cruel. "Emrys will be appointed as the member of the court. The face of magic, so to speak." Herein laid the compromise. His freedom would not be bound so tight. "Is there anything else you'd like to add to enlighten these men about Emrys?"

The servant cleared his throat and spoke with calm and care. "Emrys hasn't been spying on you, or watching you, at least not in the way you think. He's been watching _**out**_ for you… I'm Emrys."

"Great Hera's tits!" Gwaine exclaimed. Fredrick was on his feet a split second later, leaning in menacingly toward the knight and boring holes in him. Everyone else flashed Gwaine disapproving glares, too, and he apologized to Gwen once again. She was not all too sensitive to bawdy language, not any more. Her captors had made sure of that. With a detached yet regal tilt of her head, Fredrick seated himself without surrendering his distasteful scowl for Gwaine. Even if they were friends, had he no manners?

"So you're the one who used us as steps that day in the forest." Percival's smile was wry, clearly, he was impressed.

"No wonder you knew all our names," scoffed Elyan. "Wait until Leon hears about this."

"No one must know outside this room," the king warned. As much as he would trust this information with his former first knight, the more people involved, the more things had a way of going awry.

"This is a dangerous conspiracy, my lord," cautioned Fredrick.

"Indeed," the king agreed. "But it must be done. Trust no one beyond those doors. For this to work, everyone else must believe that Merlin and Emrys are two different people. Understand?"

"How will he manage to pull that off, Arthur?" asked Ranulf. "Clearly, he cannot be in two places at one time." On second thought, he added with a sidelong glance to the sorcerer, "Can he?"

Merlin shook his head. "No, he cannot." There was a bit of salt in his response. It irritated him when they spoke about him instead of to him as if he weren't there.

"Merlin," Arthur intervened. "I'm dismissing you as my manservant in order for Emrys to perform the duties of the court adviser. You are now Gaius' full-time assistant. I'm hoping that we won't require Emrys too often and you'll be able to spend more time as yourself than him."

To some extent, that was a relief to Merlin, his body ached when he was old. His physical age a disadvantage, too, tiring him out the longer he maintained the image and especially if he had to expel any kind of magic. "But Arthur," Merlin protested all the same. "I must be by your side. It's my destiny to protect you."

"And you shall be, as Emrys in court on magical matters and on missions as my personal physician. Is that satisfactory?" The smile on Merlin's face said yes before he said so himself. And then Arthur squirmed in his seat and cleared his throat as if to dislodge the next words. "George—will become my—new—manservant."

That was painful for the king to utter and Gwen, despite herself, giggled while Merlin snickered without restrain. George was truly the best-bred servant they'd ever known, from licking boots all the way to the proper placing of utensils on the table. Unlike Merlin, he was born for the position. But he bored Arthur senseless once he'd overcome his fear of speaking on a personal level to the king, and Arthur sorely regretted that. George's unrelenting enthusiasm over polishing brass had near driven him insane.

"He is probably the only one that can put with you, sire, besides me."

"That's probably because he has no imagination," the king muttered under his breath. "Do you know how many different techniques there are to polishing silver?" Merlin's unrepentant grin made him groan, he would never live that comment down. "The question is can I put up with him? He's near perfect, except for the occasional groveling and that hobby of his that he keeps going on about." Arthur then realized how badly that statement made himself look and checked himself.

"He's heartier than you think."

"We shall see." The king mustered to the unintended challenge with a boyish smile. On the other end of the table, the stern look from Gwen made him back down and tuck the boar back in. In all honesty, he might get more done with someone more efficient in protocol and the ways of court.

"Gaius, you've served me with distinction and loyalty all my life. You've been there from the beginning and this kingdom owes you a great debt. Merlin as your assistant will ease some of your responsibilities. However, I do ask you to consider using your knowledge on sorcery to instruct him on magical matters. There may be some books that survived the purge in the library; check with Geoffrey. And if you must, we'll obtain whatever you need from abroad. Do whatever you can to help him."

The physician couldn't be happier with how things were unfolding for his ward. None knew better than he of the boy's sufferings. The moment Destiny planted herself upon his shoulders his life was at risk. No one else could perceive the dangers around them and none but he had the power to intervene. Merlin wrestled with unfathomable decisions not meant for one man to carry. He had friends to help with those burdens now. Arthur dared to sow seeds that could one day flourish into a bold, new nation with Merlin at his side. Still, the young warlock had a lot to learn. "I shall do my utmost, sire, but he _**is**_ an idiot at times."

"Gaius?" Merlin squeaked, turning a wounded glance to him, noting the twinkle deep within his faded irises.

"I am aware," the king agreed with a genuine grin at Merlin's discomfiture, the smile only broadening when Merlin's injured eyes fell on him. "We'll all just have to live with his ineptitude a little longer." Arthur didn't give the man a chance to respond, holding up his hand to silence his undoubtedly witty retort. They didn't have the time now for the rounds of banter Merlin could set off. Passed the point of no return, there was one vital thing left to do. "Are we agreeable then? On our lives and pain of death, we speak to no one about Merlin's magic. It's our turn to watch over him."

All teasing aside, Merlin was soaring. The future was truly evolving into possibilities he dared to let himself imagine. He was surrounded by the people he loved and trusted the most with the exception of his mother, of course. And oh, she'd be so proud of him. Of Arthur and Gwen, too, of how far they'd come and the lengths they'd go to protect him. They accepted him for who he was, binding themselves as kin to him. He wondered with regret what would have happened, how much better life could have been had he told them long ago. Perhaps it was meant to be this way, the sword always needing to be the catalyst for change. Perhaps that was why Kilgharrah had always been insistent the sword was for Arthur and Arthur's hand alone.

"On my life," Guinevere spoke up first. Despite Merlin's part in injuring her and with her pain still deep, she could not turn her back on him as he had done to her. At first, all she'd wanted was to distance herself from them until she'd come to terms with her place amongst them. Now she didn't want to be anywhere else. Still, there was plenty to do in the rebuilding of Camelot and staying in the city did not necessarily mean that she had to be in their presence very often. She would find solace in extending a helping hand, do her part, and seek the resolution while laboring. Camelot was after all a large settlement; their paths would not need to cross very often if at all.

"On my life," echoed the rest with varying levels of enthusiasm, but still all managing to sound loyal.

"On my life," vowed the king looking directly at his secret warlock and sounding more serious than Merlin could ever remember him being before. "Thank you for your trust and faith in me. In us. The true test lies in what's ahead. We must make good use of the time we have before the announcement, a few months perhaps." There was plenty of resources from which to draw now encamped around them, but his vassals and allies could not sustain themselves and the impoverished citizens of Camelot for more than a week. And it would be another month before provisions from their respective provinces and kingdoms arrived as well. "Merlin, can you restore the burnt crops in the western fields? Winter will soon be upon us."

Merlin's euphoria lessened a few degrees and his jaw dropped in his shock. There were whole parcels of land and a variety of crops that Morgana had destroyed. He'd produced a rosebud just once and that was purely by accident. This was entirely different. He'd never tried such a spell that would affect so many lives like this before. Just before the normally sarcastic and somewhat surly retort telling his king he was not a performing jester able to do tricks at the drop of a hat he took in the serious demeanor Arthur had trained on him and the protest died on his lips. What came out instead almost made him wince. "I'm not sure. Within time, perhaps."

"You have until the day after tomorrow to figure it out." A grimace did appear then, so little time did not bode well for his chances of complete success. Somehow, he'd have manage it. There was too much at stake not to, a sentiment Arthur realized with his next statement. "That will be Emrys' first gesture of good will on behalf of sorcerers."

The matter was summarily closed to further discussion as the king shifted to another topic. "There's one final matter to discuss. We have a sorcerer at Castle Chime."

"Another sorcerer?" Elyan grumbled under his breath.

"An agent of Morgana. An informant positioned to spread disinformation. Merlin, you helped Sir Maxwell uncover his treachery. How difficult will he be to capture, do you think?"

"Well, he's secure in his talent for forgery, probably been doing it for a long while, so it's most likely his primary skill. That's not to say that he might not be dangerous. He may know killing or restraining spells, or can hurl objects that can do the same. Or he could have a talisman to help channel his magic. It takes years of practice, study, or regular use of the art for sorcerers to be any good at it. It's really hard to say how powerful he is, Arthur, but that's never stopped you before."

"No," Arthur replied, feeling the sting of Merlin's half praise. He'd fought entire magical communities, his job to eliminate them on the spot. He'd hardly ever considered the danger in respect to their power, assuming now that most of them had none or they'd have killed him long ago. To his shame, he'd cared little who stood in his path be it man, woman, or God help him, a child. How dare he call himself noble after the horrible choices he'd made. "I suppose not."

"Merlin's right," Elyan said, full of bluster. "This is no different. We've captured sorcerers before."

"No," the warlock corrected him, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone. "Not all of them had magic and certainly not all were sorcerers. You have no idea how many innocent people you've killed. Your campaigns against a way of life different than yours have resulted in more pain and anguish than you can ever imagine." Merlin had never shown his displeasure at the injustices against his kin, and there had been so many. Their silenced voices could finally be heard and now he could defend them with impunity. It would take time, patience, and compassion to change hatred so inherent on both sides. Merlin was wise enough to realize that and exhaled his frustrations as he held up a hand to yield. He did not want to diminish Arthur's efforts at mending their differences nor erode their trust in him.

"My lord," Fredrick said, the air thick with guilt, accusation, remorse. These were friends confronting past choices that they would have to heal now that the truth was out. That would have to wait, however, as they dealt with the matter at hand. "The knights of Clarwick would do well on this mission. I believe they have experience dealing with sorcerers, and I can assure you that they will not fail."

Many of his knights required time to recover from their severe treatment in the dungeons or from injuries sustained in the battles. The rest was detailed to secure the city and oversee repairs while the guards prepared for the executions, watch the prisoners.

"Very well. Percival, ready the men to leave within the hour with orders to bring the sorcerer back alive. Ranulf, see that my lords and vassals are present at the council meeting in two days. Their reactions will give us an idea of what we'll be up against when Emrys is given credit for restoring the crops. Merlin, get working on that spell, you haven't much time."

"What about us?" Gwaine asked of Elyan and himself.

"You still need time to recover," Gaius chimed in full physician mode. "A few more days of rest and nourishment for all those imprisoned."

"You heard the man," Arthur said. "Duty as usual for the rest of us. Dismissed." Chairs scraped, cloth rustled and chain mail clinked in their rise to their feet. Elyan turned back to the king who had remained seated, a question on his lips.

"Arthur, earlier you said two of the three sorcerers were killed before the battle. What happened to the third?" That stopped all motion in the room and all heads turned to the king, who in turn looked at Merlin.

"I wish I knew," Arthur admitted, recalling when Merlin and Sir Maxwell slipped away the night before battle. Merlin had returned and Maxwell had not, the knight later reported seen in Southron leather. Was Maxwell another sorcerer hidden in plain sight? Another ally fighting for the good of the kingdom in secret and in shadow? Was it he who defeated Morgana's sorcerers or bound her magic himself? If that were so, this was exactly what Gaius and Merlin had been trying to tell him. "He could be amongst the dead, imprisoned in one of our camps, or still out there, perhaps plotting against us. His mistress will be executed tomorrow and he may seek revenge. Remain vigilant. That's all we can do for now."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Arthur watched them in their departure, the surge of mixed feelings energizing the air. Hell, he could practically taste it. The wary but resigned glance to Merlin by Ranulf, the pats on the back by Gwaine and Percival, the shake of the head by Elyan who left understandably without meeting his eyes, and gratitude from Gaius holding fast to optimism. This was what he could expect, a range of emotions from the rest of the kingdom and just as high and frenetic. He would not be able to please them all, hoping that time and earnest deeds would ease their fears, that it be as bloodless as this first telling. He knew that would not be, these men holding the highest of faith in him and their newest cause, but he could hope.

Merlin grinned wide, his eyes saying thank you to the king who humbly smiled back with a nod. The sludge of deception and lies that had clung to his skin so stubbornly now slid off his back and dissolved at his feet in a matter of moments. A new and hopefully better future with Arthur was before them and Merlin was beyond words right now. It was all that he'd wished for and much, much more. In that moment, he was sure he loved his king.

"Arthur, a word please," requested Gwen coming toward him. Fredrick assumed his discrete position as Merlin and Gaius made it through the doors, leaving a palpable trail of pure joy behind them.

"Of course," Arthur said rising and adjusting his belts. Was that a small smile on her lips? A glint of gratitude and humility in her eyes? Maybe a little forgiveness in her heart?

"You're full of surprises today," she said without the touch of asperity most of their interactions had held lately. Perhaps she was warming to him again since she was now staring up at him with more curiosity and warmth than Arthur had come to expect. "Fredrick, Merlin, me. Thank you."

"For you most of all."

Gwen chewed her lip and then lowered her head, her cheeks becoming flustered.

"Do not for a moment diminish your value, Guinevere." The teasing note he habitually used in daily interactions with certain people had vanished from his voice when he directed his full attention toward her. It sent a frisson of heat skittering down into her belly. "There was a great emptiness in the castle when you were gone. You're the heart of Camelot. The one that breathed life and purpose into these halls. Without you, it is just a place, hollow, dark, and lonely. I only wish to make it easier for you to endure since you're to remain here. In time, I hope you'll call it home again."

It was hard to repel his magnetic influence, his sweet words and gestures giving her heart palpitations despite her best efforts to quell them. He'd been nothing short of perfection since they'd found out the truth, working with sincere intent to gain her forgiveness. If truth were told, he wasn't making it easy to remain at cross-purposes to him. He'd changed so much, more charismatic and radiant since owning the sword. This side of him pleased her deeply buried vanity and her longing desire to be with him.

"It's starting to feel more like it thanks to you. I'm grateful for what you've done." Her transition back into their lives was much less dismal. She had nothing to be ashamed of when all of them now carried some guilt.

The knight's collective humility to deliver their apology was more than just slightly effective. After that, it was easier being with them, her own despair in submission for something greater than herself. No doubt, more meetings would be a must, more strategy and planning in the weeks to come. More laughter and camaraderie was a certainty. Near enough like old times for her to rediscover the depths of their true friendship.

"I would ask you to dine with me, but I haven't honored your request for reflection and fear it may be too soon."

"One morning is not enough. I'm sorry." Gwen knew he sought her counsel after such a long and emotional meeting. It would have been normal for them if their schedules permitted. Her inclusion in Arthur's secret pact in full confidence was a bold attempt to resume their lives as if nothing stood between them. But she wasn't ready for _**all**_ the old times to resume just yet despite her apparent cease-fire and an apparent abatement of some resentment. She would still hurt for some while, but tolerance was the order now and patience its companion. "Please grant me a little time to sort through this."

"Of course. I understand. "Arthur didn't bother to hide the disappointment so clear in blue, sorrowful eyes, but he did manage a respectful nod before she turned and walked away.

…..

She didn't move while they were there and not through some semblance of pride either. She just had nothing left. Morgana didn't resist as Jocelyn, a maidservant from the castle above her head, sheared her raven hair short, stripping away her dignity one clip at a time and exposing her long, slender neck. She didn't flinch as the executioner then measured it, commenting with sick professional pride that one strike would be enough to dislodge her head from her shoulders, malice in his voice and vengeance in the dark eyes behind the mask. There had been all manner of death for a traitor's public execution and Morgana had witnessed many of them, pitied almost all of them. Now that it was her turn, would anyone mourn for her?

When they were gone, time ebbed and the silence crept in around her, Morgana wept, left alone to ponder the finality of her existence. Everything was gone. She'd failed. Make peace with the goddess, or curse her. No one would come to her aid. There was none left who cared. So many had died. Loved ones. Enemies. Casualties of war.

What had it all been for? What was the purpose? Her attempts to crush Arthur failed time after time. It was as if some greater power would reach out its hand and snatch victory away from her, each blow against Arthur only making him stronger in the end. His decree of beheading her by the sword, a noble's death, what manner of nobility was she now or he? Death was death no matter the method of execution and she had not foreseen hers to be so ignominious brought about by her own cowardly brother. She'd want his head on a spike to decorate her walls until the flesh rotted away and she could forget about him. That would have been just as reprehensible and more than delightful if she'd succeeded. Was she any less a coward?

Morgana took deep breaths now, hyperventilating in fear, her thoughts mired in yesteryear and the inevitability of her future. Her visions had always been helpful in the past, though in the beginning, she thought them a curse. But she'd helped people back then, warned whom she could without exposing her secret. She wore a different type of pride back then, one of honor and virtue. She had friends who'd cared for her.

The visions stopped coming when Morgause gave her the healing bracelet, only a few powerful ones slipping through once in a while. And by then, she had embraced her seer abilities and used them to cause harm. She'd hurled everything in her arsenal at Arthur and Gwen, but what had it gained her save the contempt of her friends and the scorn of a nation.

No one left to blame but herself.

She didn't hear the footfalls on the stairs, nor did she see him in the shadows when her first tear fell. She didn't notice the look of shock on Merlin's face when he saw what was left of her, her hair now almost as short as his, her once long beautiful waves of shiny, silky floss a pile of black, course tinder around her feet. The painting on her face had been washed away, her glamor stripped, though they could never take from her the natural beauty she always possessed, slightly dented through hardship as it now was. She was no longer wearing the tattered gown, either, a plain cotton shift that was slightly too large for her. There was nothing left of the evil Morgana, not in this moment. Just a vulnerable, frightened girl, pale and weeping.

She didn't see him back away, nor the tears that fell down his own cheeks for her. Nobility suffered more humiliation it seemed than that of a commonly condemned sorcerer. It was a pitiable sight.

He had come to tell her that magic was free again or would be soon. That Arthur had truly changed, saw the error of his ways. That he was determined to respect his people's diverse beliefs no matter what they were. That she had gotten what she wanted, save ruling over them. Perhaps she could take some measure of comfort knowing that her kin was safe now even though it was too late for her. In this moment, however, he could not bear to face her.

As much as she had done, he had also. While he'd received a great measure of acceptance, Arthur hadn't killed him outright nor brought him to trial save that near interrogation in his chambers. Morgana sat here shorn of all she had once been and awaiting the same fate he had feared for years.

Why had it come to this?

He leaned against the clammy walls of the last room Morgana would ever see and clung to the thought that he had not committed the atrocities she had. But his breaths came short and sharp, pulled from some deep recess of his being, wondering in their panting quality if he were not just deluding himself and he was not just as bad as she.

…..

*larasmith, Chapter 14 Son of the Earth comment, June 6, 2016.


	24. Fractures

A/N: The description of Ygraine's dress is written by my lovely beta, KIMMIKY, and as you will see, she has a gift. It's absolutely exquisite. Thanks, Kimmy!

Chapter 24 Fractures

…..

The base of his mother's dress had been white at one point, a beautiful heavy silk falling in graceful folds from a high waist almost straight to the floor, elegant in its well-disguised simplicity. But the ravages of time had yellowed it, leaving it stained and unusable, full of tiny holes along the hem of the skirt where the moths had finally managed to gain a foothold. The beading, however, was perfect. Celtic knot-work scrolling almost lazily around the neckline and down the skirt front in intricate swirling patterns dizzying to the eye. The two-inch wide band was made mostly of tiny gold beads and thread but interspersed here and there were slightly larger seed pearls and chips of deepest purple amethyst winking in the light.

There was a belt too, of gold wire curled into yet more knot-work wrapped and made into medallions with yet more gold wire linking them together. Each knot held a flower in its center made of pearls and in the midst a full amethyst. Gwen eyed it with something akin to awe. It must have taken months of painstaking labor to make those panels and the belt. It had been made for the dress or vice versa since it was too similar in pattern to the beading to have been meant for anything else.

Her table held a small fortune's worth of clothing made all the more expensive for whom they had belonged. These had been made for the late queen, Arthur's mother, and now he had given them to her to make new finery fit for the woman he still wanted as queen.

She could not help wondering that if his marriage to Mithian had gone ahead as planned, would he have bestowed this upon her. Arthur had found his princess during the time when she had been fighting for her life. Gwen's teeth clenched, her lips thinning in a frown she tried to conceal. Still conflicted over Mithian's brief relationship with Arthur, Gwen envied her without even having met the poor woman. She couldn't keep from comparing herself to the long departed princess and hated facing this side of herself. Mithian was probably a perfect match for Arthur, already bred to rule beside a king, groomed for court, trained to navigate the intrigue of politics, and already respected. She was pedigree in the fullest, of noble stock, something that Gwen would never be. _She was said to be beautiful, too,_ Gwen moaned to herself.

"What do you intend to do with it?" Fredrick asked.

"Oh!" Gwen startled, the pain from clenching her teeth radiating in her jaw. "Sorry. What was that?"

Gwen transformed her wrecked apartments back into livable quarters with the help of Fredrick and two servants. It had taken all afternoon. The charred remnants of what had once been her royal wardrobe of fine dresses and cloaks were cleared from the center of the bedroom and thrown out. Gwen placed a thick rug over the fire-scarred stones and then positioned a desk and chair beside it. She'd darted around the room performing one task after another while instructing the others to carry out something else. They were near done when the king arrived a few moments past.

Arthur had walked up to her, presented the ornate wooden box with a steady gaze under slightly hooded lids. The radiance that haloed him in that moment quickened her heartbeat as she accepted the gift. He'd left without uttering a word and that made her insides burn. He cherished what was inside it and had entrusted it to her. Gwen had been staring at the dress for a long time now, stunned by his actions as much as the gown's sheer elegance. Anyone else may have looked upon the damaged dress as an insult, but she saw the true meaning behind the offering.

"It's beautiful," the soldier replied. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Um…." Gwen began to fold the delicate gown back into the wooden chest, the silk doubling over itself like folds of thick cream until only the beaded bodice was visible. "Well, there's going to be a wedding soon, isn't there?" Her throat cinched and her nails dug into the wood after she closed the lid. She hadn't had time to think about the tumultuous turn of events, everything such a jumble that it was easier to forget. Things that moved too quickly to process now stared her in the face and Gwen pressed a firm hand to her ribs, the dull ache in her stomach as heavy as rocks. "I could spend the time making a new gown… I suppose," she trailed off.

She avoided Fredrick's concerned stare knowing that she did not sound as joyful as a bride should be. Instead, her gaze wandered around her private apartments and then strayed to the rug covering the scorch marks. Every garment she owned was lost in Longstead or abandoned in Ealdor, including what little coin she'd earned there. Morgana burned everything else save the peasant's dress she was wearing. It was the sole article of clothing left hanging in the wardrobe. To Gwen, it was a clear statement of what Morgana would always consider her to be.

"When we're done here," Fredrick said, "perhaps a visit to the upper town to find some cloth suitable for it." The Southrons had taken up residence in the upper town and forced their people to labor in its markets, yet forbade them patronage. The citizens were left to fend for themselves outside the city walls, punishment severe for anyone caught stealing.

She didn't enjoy spending much time in the towns yet even if her people were back in charge of their stores. They'd hosted as many as five visiting dignitaries with full complements at one time; celebrated tournaments and feasts that drew people from across the seas; held morbid executions that brought the curious or those thirsty for blood. Never had they come together all at once and Camelot seemed foreign, smaller, and hostile even to her despite its recent victory. Gwen pulled a breath and released it slowly as she pinched the bridge of her nose at the thought of her bulging city.

Annis would be using her private rooms, so she couldn't remain here even if she did send someone else to fetch the cloth. Besides, she only had a few days before the wedding and if she didn't get started now, it would not be ready. Arthur's desire to marry her seemed somewhat urgent.

He'd proposed twice today, the first time to be his wife. The second time to be Camelot's queen. Gwen swallowed, her slender fingers pressing the spot between her ribs again. Both were an enormous responsibility and one time they were all she could dream about being. She was different now. Like the silk in Ygraine's dress, parts of her had been ravaged, eaten away, and perhaps so damaged that it could not be repaired. Could her trust in him be salvaged? Could she continue to ignore the signs that warned instead of comforted her? She bit the inside of her lip but straightened her shoulders regardless of the heaviness on them. She handed the precious box to Fredrick.

"Let's get started then," she said hesitantly, pressing down the front of her bodice. "I've vowed to marry Arthur, help him to bring in this new era." The quiver in her voice made Gwen sighed. She touched her temple and applied a little pressure, closing her eyes as Fredrick tucked the box under an arm. "Truthfully, it's all a bit overwhelming. I don't know what I'm doing. Arthur, Merlin, my closest friends. How can they expect me to forgive them so quickly? Do they really think that I can forget so easily and that everything will go back to the way it was?"

"Men are stupid, insensitive cocks, Gwen." She scoffed and rolled her eyes, though one side of her mouth turned upward. He was ready to pummel Gwaine for his crude language a few hours ago, and here he was spouting it casually in private. The reddening of his ears and the tightening of his lips, however, conveyed it as a slip-up. He most likely meant the fowl. He dipped his chin and cleared his throat.

"Apologies, my lady. But it's a shameful fact. Some of us place loyalty above all else, even love. We've sacrificed the greatest treasure this world has to offer to save our pride. It saddens me greatly that you were the victim of your loved ones' arrogance. I've even-" He looked away, casting his eyes downward.

"What is it?" she asked breathlessly, shivering from the hairs prickling her nape and arms.

"I'm as guilty as those who have hurt you, my lady."

The back step was involuntary as she wrapped her arms around her waist. "What do you mean?" Her brow wrinkled, a knot tightened in her belly again. How many more "friends" would take up rank against her?

Fredrick opened his mouth and then closed it with a gulp, the words crawling back down his throat. He glanced down and away swallowing again before he steadied his gaze upon her.

"The day I met you was no chance encounter, Gwen. There's something you must know."

Gwen expelled a puff of air, her arms falling loosely to her side. "That you're no stranger here? And how familiar you are with Camelot and many of the soldiers? You seem to know as much about the castle as I do." Arthur often took in strays and rewarded them for their loyalty and valor, including several of his favored knights. He trusted like that even if it were a little naive. Some of his new recruits often found themselves dazed by Camelot's invigorating environs sprawled across seven square kilometers. They were always getting lost and always sought assistance finding one place or another.

Fredrick claimed to be from Escetir, an enemy kingdom. Since their return, he traversed the supposedly foreign city with cool confidence. When they dueled with bandits, she even remembered likening his fighting style to Arthur and his knights. She cocked an eyebrow, her head slightly tilted. "Fredrick, do not think because Arthur has distracted me, I haven't noticed what's been going on with you. I only wondered how long it would take for you to tell me. You spoke of him as if you didn't know him when we first met."

The soldier dipped his chin again. "Aye, my lady."

"He sent you and Erwan to protect me, didn't he?"

"Aye." His voice was as low as his hunched shoulders. "I hope you can forgive me for my silence.

Gwen looked at him with tender mercy and placed a hand on his arm. "You were doing your duty as I'm sure you were commanded."

"I failed, Gwen. I allowed Helios to capture you, injure you. I should never have left your side."

"I'm grateful you weren't there. You would have been a threat to the Southrons and possibly killed as well. I will never blame you for what happened in Longstead."

"My greatest honor has been serving you, my lady." Fredrick knelt and lowered his eyes. "My sword is yours for the rest of my life."

"You have my gratitude. Thank you, Fredrick." She smiled warmly. Gwen gained many brothers since her father's death. Fredrick was like a long-lost uncle who stepped in to fill the void so long ago left by him.

"Gwen," Fredrick said, rising with hesitant care. "The king showed his love for you even in the freshness of his sorrow. I hope he receives your favor for it."

It had been a few hours since she last saw Arthur or his coterie of knights except for his brief appearance. Staying busy provided adequate distraction from her tumultuous thoughts up until then. So much had been thrust at her, tempting her to forego the pain that still consumed her heart. Each a gentle reminder that Arthur cherished her even as he severed all hopes those months ago. Each roiling contrasts to the need to mourn her own losses. She wanted to forget how generous and caring he was, his gentle nature in her regard. She wanted to hold fast to believing Fredrick's description of men, her hurts too deep to let them go right now.

Young Errol, a skinny lad of eight seasons scooted past Fredrick and bowed before Gwen. Clothes too large shifted on his frame and long, disheveled tawny brown hair obscured sparkling hazel eyes. He must have grown a full hand since she'd last spotted him scurrying to his errands. Gwen glowed seeing the boy she'd helped bring into this world.

"For you, Lady Guinevere," he said as he handed her a scroll, a toothy grin taking up the rest of his face. He made a visible effort to steady his delight in the presence of the queen-to-be and his friend.

"Thank you, Errol. That will be all." The page bowed again before whisking away. Gwen eyed the scroll before glancing to Fredrick, who only offered a shrug. She untied the red ribbon with one pull and then unrolled crisp parchment.

The curiosity faded from her expression and disbelief replaced it after a few moments of reading. She grasped the air in search of the chair just out of reach, her eyes still glued to the paper. Fredrick pulled it for her and Gwen sat heavily as she read the letter once again, the paper quivering in her hands.

"What is it, Gwen?" Fredrick asked after the long silence, his brow creased with concern.

She lifted glazed eyes with something between relief and sadness, gratitude and shock. Her mouth twitched and her throat tightened. "My father," she said with a tremulous voice, putting a hand to her breast as if out of breath. "Arthur has proclaimed his death as wrongful. A mistake by the crown that rests solely upon his shoulders…."

That was not so in Arthur's case. The moment he wrapped his arms around her on that dreadful day, Gwen had no doubt he shared in her despair. He bore the whole of his father's actions as she grieved in his embrace.* Now he'd taken responsibility for it for all the world to see.

Fredrick leaned in with strong eye contact, his posture stiff with an air of readiness. "A grave injustice has been undone, my lady," he said. "To have your father's name and honor restored surely gives you great joy."

Gwen bit her lip and a puff of air escaped. "Of course it does. A few words ripped his honor from him and a few more gave it back. I never thought it would be possible." Her eyelids began to sting and she closed them. "It's more than that, isn't it?"

"It shows how much you mean to him, Gwen. How much he cares for you."

More nudging. More persuasion on Arthur's behalf. The dull thud in Gwen's chest brought a hand to press harder between her ribs. The heat burned behind her eyelids, causing her blink rapidly. "He's trying so hard, isn't he? To make amends. These are no small tokens, Fredrick. Each one designed to play upon my sensitivities. The truth is, the more he tries, the further I want to run." Her throat had tightened again. "I'm not sure that really makes sense."

Gwen shook her head and squeezed her eyes, her lips pressed in a tight frown. She counted Arthur's great deeds, all dizzying in the depths of their meaning. He'd distracted her from the shadows of the real truth and now they crept back into the light, ready to explode. Needles spiked in her head, behind her eyes. Gwen snapped to her feet, her red-rimmed eyes darting around the chambers, her mouth clamped so tight she heard her teeth grind.

"The castle is about to get very crowded," she croaked. "I need to be alone."

She rushed past Fredrick, the parchment crinkled in a tight fist. She stopped short after entering the corridors teeming with Nemeth, Dyfed, and Gawant colors. Soon Gwynedd and Mercia banners would join the flux. Making her way through the flurry with forced, but steady paces, she acknowledged her own kinsmen's reception once again. This time with false acceptance. Somehow, their deference seemed not as sincere, their smiles not as genuine. Confusion clouded those qualities in them. These were the very people that turned their backs and spoke ill of her, labeled her as a woman of indiscretion. She trusted none of them yet received them with composure as good as Arthur himself. Her insides roiled and by the time she crossed the citadel's archway, she near sprinted down the steps.

Through the ebb and flow of people, she spotted Elyan stopped mid-stride at the foot of the steps clutching an identical piece of parchment and eyes filled with unshed tears. All she saw was her little brother, and her father during happier times flooded her thoughts. The din of the crowd around her dulled, and they rushed into a wordless embrace, tight and comforting. As they'd done so many times before, the love they held for each other bound them back together, perhaps a little broken with each heartbreak. Laying to rest the long-suffering ordeal shadowing their father could not have bound them tighter.

Someone bumped into them and they pulled apart. She felt the prickle of tears as he shared a warm and focused gaze. Gwen's breath hitched, her desire to remain in the past already snuffed out by the weight of the present. She broke away and continued her descent to the bottom, his eyes tracking her through the mass of bodies providing efficient cover until she was through the gates.

The town provided no refuge, however. It was bursting with strangers, indiscernible chattering, and dizzying noise and color. She hardly recognized it. Wooden gallows dotted the roadside every twenty paces or so, trees with claws reaching for her like the harbingers of doom that they were. She couldn't decide whether to fist the sides of her skirt or wrap arms around her body.

Despite the pervading air of victory all around her, Gwen couldn't breathe; her chest hurt. The sensation of the world speeding up around her made her swoon. Camelot didn't seem like home anymore, foreign to her in every way, yet another disturbing layer to pile upon her confusion. She pushed onward toward the only place of safety and solitude.

Fredrick followed her inside the cottage and placed the wooden box on the table, his brow creased and lips tight. Gwen ignored the concern in his eyes and issued a quavering dismissal.

She lowered herself onto the bench and lurched forward, throwing her arms on the table, her chest heaving as her scattered thoughts grasped for something she could hold onto. She looked around the place that held lifetimes of memories, her vision glazed and unfocused. Even unto her home, there was a strangeness within. Something was out of place.

Six people lived in the dwelling during the occupation, yet other than the absence of any of the useable resources she had left behind, there was no evidence that anyone had encroached upon her property. Nothing broken or destroyed or hardly out of place. Even the dried bouquets were still nailed in their places around the room, though their fragrance had long since faded.

It was home, nonetheless, and she was safe here, away from the frenzy that gripped her city and the concerted effort to push her back into Arthur's arms. Why won't they let her be? Why didn't she leave as she'd wanted and take her chances with Fredrick? At least it would have given her time to sort through knowing that she hadn't been unfaithful to Arthur. Come to terms with some of the things he'd done. Shuttering sobs came as her head drooped between sagging shoulders. Trembling hands crushed the parchment, all the day's events so jumbled that she couldn't think straight.

"Arthur," she breathed, her eyes shut as tight as the fists around the parchment.

She'd dared him to figure the course to make amends and his tactics proved quite brilliant, executed no doubt from the moment she'd walked out on him. The timing of the knights' apology could not have been better played either. The whole lot caught her unprepared, hewed her defenses one gift at a time, their acts of kindness snatching away the anger in favor of him.

She resented Arthur's attempts to smother her feelings with sweet contrition and hidden devotion. Arthur scarred her as much as Helios and Morgana, the raw feelings from early morning taking turns to remind her of that.

The flow of water coursing her cheeks and pooling the tabletop prompted Gwen to rise on shaky knees and seek a cloth. She steadied her balance at the table's edge, the tracks of tears refusing to stop for her. She pushed away from the table, her chest tight and heavy, her eyes stinging, and made her way to the first piece of tattered cloth she could get her hands on. Dotting her face with trembling hands only cleared the way for more tears. Dropping onto the bed produced a wave of shuttering breaths that forced her to lie back. One hand massaged her forehead, the other the ache in her stomach that just wouldn't go away.

She told him she'd stand beside him, said she'd marry him. Why had she allowed herself to be swept up in the moment? When Arthur laid out his plans to change the kingdom, he pulled her in, his deep desire for something better a reflection of her own. He didn't want to usher in this new era without her so that should mean something. She couldn't back out now or even delay.

The evening bell tolled its lazy peal, oddly comforting in her drifting thoughts. Her eyelids drew heavy, the notion to portray the perfect queen that they did not want, the perfect wife for Arthur to display stirring her rest. She would respect their positions, play her role, and even hold his hand if that was his desire. In private, she'd need a different tactic for the other duty expected of her. She would do it because some part of her still loved him while the other wanted to hurt him… He couldn't win… Not this… time….

…..

A succession of dull knocks and hearing her name called brought Gwen out of slumber with a throaty moan. Her mouth was dry, her throat raw and the painful rumble in her stomach only reminded her of how empty she felt all over. The glow of dusk outside her window darkened the room. A dying candle illuminating the small space indicated that a few hours had passed. The knock came again and Gwen swept her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Her head spun in one direction and the room twirled in another. She rested her head in her hands and waited for the room to still.

It was most likely Fredrick fetching her for supper. She hoped he'd taken some time for himself after she'd dismissed him. He'd been stuck at her side since their return and now that she knew of his kinship to Camelot, she hoped he used her withdrawal as an opportunity to do something for himself.

"Come in, Fredrick," she said, rising with weary bones and straightening her gown without looking at him when the door creaked open, the revelry outside following him in. She scooped up the cloth used to dry her tears and went to the hearth. Her face was swollen from sleeping, her eyes bloodshot from weeping. She was a mess and she kept her back to him as she poured liquid into a bowl and splashed her face with water cupped in her hands. The water was invigorating and brought another moan as she cooled her skin and soothed her burning eyes.

"The Rising Sun might do well for dinner tonight," she said, unabashed in front of Fredrick. They'd spent hard times together in the wild, so what was this amongst comrades-in-arms. "It's likely swarming with patrons so seating might be a problem." Another candle was lit behind her as she dried her face and hands on the tattered cloth and then straightened her front again. She really must get to shopping if she were to remain here a few days. Her cupboards needed replenishing as well as the bare necessities for daily personal care.

"I'm sure they'll make considerations for the future queen," Merlin said with far too much respect, his voice absent of its usual cheer. Gwen's shoulders straighten but she didn't face him. "Perhaps, Arthur would be better company?"

She clicked her teeth and whirled around then. "Of course, you know what's best for us, don't you?" Gwen said, her eyes cold, her jawline distinctive and hard, but deep down knowing he was probably right. If anything, she had to start spending more time with her future husband for appearance's sake. "Is that what you came for? To swear by Arthur?"

"No," he said softly, his sapphires glazed. "Just to say that I'm sorry for what I did, for not telling Arthur sooner, for leaving you alone. Gwen, I never meant to hurt you. I never realized…"

"How your silence nearly led to my death four times over?" Gwen thought she had struck him by the way his body recoiled and the gasp that escaped. Pressing her advantage, she kept striking. "You had a chance to tell me. A few of them actually. It would have ended some of my suffering whether you had found the bracelet or not."

"I tried to convince you to come back."

She squared her shoulders and bored bloodshot daggers into him. "Would you have told me if I had?" He waited too long to answer and Gwen twirled away, one hand going to her temple and the other to kneed the gnaw in her stomach.

"The war," he finally croaked, as if that was the answer to everything. "So much was at stake. We both knew the kingdom was on the brink of invasion and Arthur was already distracted."

She turned her body at an angle instead of facing him head-on, her lips tight and chin jutted out. "Mithian."

"One of his bad decisions during your absence," Merlin admitted. "He wasn't himself, Gwen. Some things fell back into place when he found your ring."

Gwen shuttered. "Arthur found my ring," she asked softly, her skin tingling.

"He kept it in his desk, but I think it's been lost since the battle. Gwen, he was so distraught when he first found it. I think he must have thought the worst."

"I thought I'd lost it or that Morgana had taken it," she breathed, her voice shaky, disbelieving.

"He missed you so, Gwen. He knew then, that he needed to find you."

Gwen scoffed. "He was still angry with me in Ealdor. He said some hurtful things to me."

"'A broken heart takes time to mend.'"

"And time is what I need, Merlin," she huffed. "Have you said what you came to say?"

"No. Not quite." Merlin reached into his pocket and brought out a familiar cloth. Walking past her, he placed it on the table and peeled back the corners. She stared at it, mesmerized, her mind wandering back to when Lancelot first placed it on her wrist. In this very room. "What do you want to do with it?"

"Flee. Get as far away from it as possible." After a moment, she scooped up the bundle and rushed to the small metal fire pit. Without hesitation, she threw it onto the charcoal remains from days ago and then threw a few more logs on top of it. She hadn't needed to seek warmth in the recent crisp summer nights. In fact, she hadn't needed much covering at all for this time of year. Reaching for the tinderbox, the flames roared to life, flashing in clear and dazzling orange. Gwen gasped, jumping back from the sudden and penetrating heat.

"It wouldn't have been hot enough to melt the metal," Merlin said coming beside her. "I'm sure you knew that though."

"Strange that the pit isn't melting from the intensity of the flames. And that nothing else has been destroyed in my home since I left. Six people lived here for a week. Other than bare cupboards and a little laundering to do, nothing has been disturbed. Do you have something to do with that?"

Merlin blinked. "Um, Arthur had your home boarded up. He didn't want anyone else to live here while you were gone. I didn't want anything to happen to it, so I placed an enchantment upon it. I wanted it to be nice, you know. When you returned."

Hope from the beginning, and Gwen sighed. More signs of their irrefutable loyalty.

"I…" Merlin cleared his throat, shuffling a little. "I need to tell you one more thing, but I'm almost afraid to."

"What is it, Merlin?" Her mind screamed "Not again!" but Gwen held her ground.

"When you were about to leave for Ealdor, do you remember that we hugged each other?"

"Yes," she said with a little suspicion even though she remembered the embrace as warm and comforting.

"Well, I placed a protection spell around you. I… I guess it was so powerful that… that it's still protecting you."

Gwen shook her head, two hands going up to hold her face. Oh, the things that they'd done for her from the start. And then the things they'd done since. Gwen stepped forward and hugged Merlin, startling him.

"Thank you," she said sweetly. "Now please, remove the spell. I'll take my chances like the rest."

Merlin put his arms around her and relaxed in their embrace, smiling as he did so. "You know. I don't need to hold you to remove the spell. The last time was a spur of the moment decision."

"I know. This way is better, don't you think?"

The words he spoke were strange and yet calming to Gwen, not at all like the enchantment of the bracelet. That one cast her thoughts into turmoil. This one was as if slipping out of a warm pool of water. She could feel the chill now and that was all right with her. She pulled away from Merlin and looked toward the fire, now a dull cherry glow.

"I'm not sure if the curse held, but the metal is still there," Merlin said. "I'll see to its disposal. Take it deep within the forest and bury it. No one will ever find it."

Gwen turned and looked at her friend. "Merlin, what you did, not telling Arthur sooner, that will take time for me to get over."

His shoulders sagged. "I know."

"But it wouldn't have made a difference. Arthur and I may have been together sooner, but knowing the truth doesn't change what he's done."

"It still has you at odds with him."

"I can forgive you, Merlin. I can forgive all my friends, and in time, I will. But Arthur… the depths of his offenses… it still hurts despite all that he's done today."

"Do you still love him?"

Gwen's insides burned, her body tingled as old feelings tried to intrude. "Not as deeply as before, but enough to stay with him." Morgana had tried to ruin their relationship for years and they'd always came out the stronger for it. Arthur was right this time: they couldn't let her win. Gwen was the only one standing in the way of their victory, and she had a decision to make. She took a deep breath, twisted her hands over each other. "Arthur and I will have to start over and rebuild what we had. That's the best I can do. Will you let him know I'd like to join him for dinner after all? If it isn't too late?"

Merlin smiled. "Yes, my lady. Right away." He tilted his head with due respect and then shuffled past Fredrick out the door.

"Is everything all right," he asked leaning in, knowing it must have been by the smile on Merlin's face.

"Uh huh," Gwen hummed. She may as well start the performance. "Take the evening off, Fredrick. I'll be spending mine with Arthur."

…..

It may have been rude, but Arthur didn't care. He'd arranged to dine with the other monarchs, but as soon as Merlin informed him of Guinevere's request, he spent the rest of the time making personal apologies to each of them while Merlin prepared their private meal. He could have sent a page to extend his regards, but he thought it best to do it himself, tell them that the love for a woman demanded his attention above all else right now. All he could think of was Guinevere and that nothing would ever come between them again. Arthur opened the door when she arrived. Like Merlin, Fredrick had been dismissed and it would be just the two of them to fend for themselves.

"Guinevere," he said with a smile and bright eyes, stepping back to widen the door. "Please come in." He caught a whiff of lavender as she stepped across the threshold, soothing his racing heart a little. "My lady, you look lovely." It was the same blue dress she'd worn all day, wrinkled now and hem soiled, but it was the truth in his eyes.

Blocking her view of the table and taking her hand, he led her to the basin to wash. Her hands were calloused, dry, having lost their supple gloss from months of laboring on her own or while in captivity. Arthur bit the inside of his lip and then handed her a linen to dry her hands.

He gestured toward the table and smiled a little when her eyes wandered across the spread of food, some of her favorites: salted cod, roasted kid and chicken, bread, stewed vegetables and mushrooms, chestnuts and pears, a variety of summer fruit and so many sweets that even his mouth watered. He was positive it had been months since she'd had a meal such as this, her slender body another testament of her hardship and a strike to his gut. She deserved a feast and so much more. He knew she'd missed such delicacies and where Merlin had gotten it he didn't know, nor did he care. "Shall we?"

"This could be a messy affair, Arthur," Guinevere giggled, eying the meat, knowing how greasy Cook liked things and she'd have to use her fingers to peel the sumptuous meat from the bone.

"Indeed," he said, kissing her knuckle. "It'll give me the chance to wash your lovely hands between each course."

Guinevere's hand tightened in his, flinching as she balled her other into a fist. "They're not so lovely anymore."

"They're not why I love you." Arthur pulled out a chair next to his in which Guinevere sat with a smile she couldn't hide from him. They always sat close together instead of separation by the length of the table. He insisted she sit at his right, though a few times she'd taken the proper place at the opposite end for the distance. Those had been times when they'd been in opposition with each other. Even though now was the worst of those times, he was hoping Guinevere wasn't as reticent to his closeness as she had been that morning. Much had happened since then.

"Thank you," she said, reaching for the wine that Arthur swiftly relieved her of while placing a small plate of sugarcoated confections in front of her.

" _ **I**_ will serve you." This was reminiscent of the breakfast they'd had many years ago when he'd said the same thing.* He kissed her for the first time that morning. A goodbye kiss before he left for the tournament. By the coyness of her smile, she remembered, too, and this pleased Arthur.

"The surprises keep coming," Guinevere said as Arthur filled their goblets. She took a sip as he sat down.

"And they will never stop. I promise you." His gaze was as deep as his words were true. She searched his face, his eyes, his lips and all he had to show was his deep affection for her. She broke her gaze and began eating, spooning the confection into small bites. Arthur put three times the confections on a plate for himself and then popped an entire square into his mouth.

"Oh," Guinevere breathed. "This is delicious." She spooned another small bite and then searched the table for the blackberries. Taking a few of them and putting them on the plate, she selected the plumpest and bit into it.

He couldn't keep his eyes off her, nor could he blink away the sadness behind them. It seemed like forever since they'd been together like this, over a full season's time and his fault they were separated in the first place. If he'd only trusted her from the beginning, believed that she truly hadn't understood why she was drawn to another man, they wouldn't be where they were now. He should have moved mountains to find out what was wrong with her. Instead, he'd buried her under them. Arthur smoothed away a grimace just as Guinevere finished the other half of the blackberry and looked at him, her chewing slowing. He tried to smile. He'd been a fool.

"I… I can't thank you enough for all you've done," Guinevere said. "It's more than I expected and ever could have dreamed."

A couple of words scribbled on parchment could not make up for what he'd done to her. Nor could an heirloom worn with age and disuse. These were gifts he'd considered for some time, but could not give her while his father was alive. When he became king, he'd taken advantage of her patience as other matters took precedence. Then this tragedy struck. "I love you, Guinevere. There's nothing I would not do for you."

"You can't give me pretty things and expect all to be forgiven. I can't be bought, Arthur."

That was not what he was trying to do and it hurt that it meant such to her. Guinevere's wounds were deep; scars he'd caused that would take time to heal, if they healed at all. He had a long way to go to earn her trust and he had no other ideas how to do that. "All I want," he said, "is for you to look upon me with fondness once more. To love me as before."

"It will never be as before."

Something in her eyes he'd never seen gleamed back at him and Arthur shuttered. She'd spoken with such ease, such finality, the words striking him clean through the heart. He'd told her something similar that day before Excalibur came into his life, though he'd been much harsher to her. Tristan had riled him so, hacked away at his character one insult after another, and Guinevere had been a convenient target to channel his anger soon after. At the time, he'd believed she was guilty despite his deep desire for her and lashed out with cruel intent to hurt her. Arthur looked down, the ache at the back of his throat making it difficult for him to swallow. A rock-hard heaviness in his stomach made the sweets on his plate no longer appetizing.

Guinevere placed her hand upon his, drawing his gaze back to hers. He couldn't hide the misery in his eyes, the shame etched upon his brow. He'd made so many mistakes with her. Could he expect someone who'd suffered so much by his hand ever to love him truly? She squeezed gently, the corners of her mouth twitching that adorable way when she was unsure whether to smile or say something. "But maybe one day it will be better."

Arthur lifted her hand as her sweet words of hope untied the knots in his stomach, certain now that he'd seen no more than the woman he loved behind softening brown eyes. He kissed the inside of her wrist. "I hope that day is soon upon us. I've missed you, Guinevere, and have grieved for the sorrow I caused you. I swear I'll never hurt you again."

He didn't really like it when Guinevere simply withdrew and picked up her spoon, scooping up another small bite. She used to glow when he opened his heart to her. Her smile would light up the room. The small one she did grant him was just barely a spark. Arthur ate another confection, wanting to be happy with what she did give him but longing for more. Much, much more.

 _Time_ , he thought. _Just as she'd asked. Give her time_.

…..

He'd left Gwen alone as she'd ordered and went to the quartermaster to reclaim his stake. He'd been absent for months and quarters were sparse with all the visitors, so for a time, he'd remain in soldier quarters before being assigned to the knight's wing where he would have to reside. Fredrick was sure he wouldn't fit in either place now.

But Gwen worried him. She was breaking, had broken. All the signs of trauma were there and they were making things worse. They'd pushed too hard, too soon, and Gwen wasn't ready to extend atonement. He wished the king had granted her leave to work through her feelings, but he understood Arthur's desire to have her by his side. But what sacrifices would she have to make for the sake of the kingdom?

After receiving his quarters, he sought out Gaius. The old physician was versed enough to know that Gwen was traumatized from her ordeals and would need care. He gave Fredrick a potion for her to help ease some of her stress, but warned that she must speak to him herself for him to make a proper diagnosis. Gwen wasn't pleased that he'd spoken to Gaius, but she'd taken the draught nonetheless before dining with Arthur.

He went to find food for himself, and then returned outside the king's chamber doors. Merlin showed up some time later, too, and the two of them waited in silence.

"You're a trickster," Fredrick said.

"I am," Merlin agreed.

"For the king and queen-to-be."

"Until the day I die."

They glared an understanding until the king's doors cracked open and the couple emerged. They seemed happy and this pleased Fredrick that Gaius' remedy may have helped to ease some of the tension.

Arthur walked her to her doorstep, this time their path cleared just because of who they were. Arthur kissed her and she giggled as she retreated across the threshold and closed the door.

Fredrick took up his post and stared ahead as Arthur stood there a moment before moving off and away, Merlin at his side. His relief was in a few hours and he'd return before she rose the next day and start all over again.

…..

*You… Always Surprise Me," by Doberler, 2015 (revised 2017).


	25. Today's Beginning

A/N: At last, here is the next installment. Long story about my long absence mainly full of excuses so I won't bore you with the details. Many thanks to Charis77 for her talented beta skills and lovely contributions to this chapter, especially the first scene. Meeting her has rekindled my enthusiasm and inspired me to complete this story. The remaining five chapters are written and queued up waiting for her magical touch, so no more long dry periods. I hope you enjoy the final chapters of Part 1, The Trials of Pendragons. IDOM.

Chapter 25 Today's Beginning

…..

Percival was sure he'd make it back in time for the executions tomorrow. As First Knight, it was now his responsibility to ensure the security of Camelot. With six visiting dignitaries and full entourages, he couldn't afford to be absent. A joint effort of allied captains, knights, and soldiers patrolled the towns, bulging with all manner of people, and the encampments that kept cropping up outside the walls. Most of the detail for tomorrow would involve securing the three lanes the prisoners would travel, gauntlets lined with wooden gallows leading to the entrances of three of Camelot's gates. Archers and spotters would be assigned to patrol the balconies in the courtyard, the battlements, and wall walk. Crowd control would be essential, and the ample men under his command could handle it.

Percival pressed on, his powerful mount at a dangerous gait in the thick woods and fading darkness. He had a promise to keep and his honor was a stake. He checked the mare tied to a lead and keeping pace with his own steed. Sure, it wasn't the horse he'd borrowed last week-that one had become lame in his haste to reach Arthur after his disturbing dream and he'd been forced to put it down. He presumed the old farmer wouldn't mind a younger and stronger horse bred in Camelot stables. Day was breaking. As he sped north, his thoughts drifted from the simple fulfillment of a promise to the pretty maiden that had caught his eye.

Becoming a knight-elite for Arthur was the highest honor Percival had ever received, and he'd pledged his life to king and kingdom. His first few years had been dedicated to unrelenting training and perilous missions. Any remaining time had been split between meditation and prayer, the bonding of brothers, and the call of the maiden-rewards that balanced his life.

Up until this battle.

He'd observed the subtle loss of Arthur's edge after failing his woman, and its sharpness when he won her back. He'd witnessed Leon cradle his wife in their long journey back to the castle, his fellow knight's heart crushed while his mettle had never shone brighter. His king and brother knight had pursued love, experienced both its sacrifice and bitter sting, embraced it even in dark times. Leon and his children would mourn, but they could hold to each other. Arthur and Gwen put aside the pain of the past to pursue a renewed future together. Percival had come to see he had no one, just a hollowed heart desiring to be filled.

While he'd loved his share of beauties, their vanities prevented deeper, meaningful relationships. He was a simple man with simple desires harboring no taste for the privileged expectations of city girls. He must look elsewhere for a woman rich with the little she owned, and a humble farm in the middle of nowhere was a good place to start.

…..

Gwen awoke still wrapped in the glow of last evening, more confident than ever. So much had changed in the span of a day. Her life had unraveled, unveiling the masks of friends, and she'd been ready to flee. Arthur had disappointed her, deeply hurt her, did exactly what Morgana wanted him to do short of executing her. That was the core of it-Morgana's puppets, all of them with Gwen at center stage. But Arthur was right; they couldn't let her win. Yes, their hearts and lives were torn asunder, trust and bonds shredded, but Fate had intervened and thrust them back together for the good of themselves and the kingdom. They needed each other to heal themselves and Camelot.

She purred through a stretch and then rolled onto her side, toiling in the hospital seeming less daunting today. She'd be married soon, and then crowned queen, right after Arthur's announcement to change the rules on magic in three days. No fanfare, Gwen had insisted, simple ceremonies and modest feasts in light of their lost harvest and scarce provisions that prevented the commoners from sharing in the celebrations. The people would hardly have recovered from the fatal justice to come.

The executions would mark a dark beginning to her reign. Gwen greatly wished she could gloss over the hangings and the blood that would need scrubbing away in the courtyard or forget that hundreds of bodies would be hauled to mass graves far beyond the city and the gallows dismantled with no sign they had ever existed. Sadly, tomorrow was inescapable, and Gwen couldn't avoid it any more than she could the sunlight of day. Still, she controlled the timing of her wedding and had broached the subject with Arthur.

"So much spilt blood just days before the beginning of our life together is enough to give anyone pause, Arthur," she'd insisted last night. "Delaying for a month is more reasonable."

"Just end me now, Guinevere," he'd moaned. "We've waited far too long to be together, years, and we've both suffered much. I don't want to lose another day. I want to be your husband more than anything."

 _Her_ _husband_ , he'd said. Her defenses had all but crumbled, and she'd felt the heat of desire for him. She couldn't fault Arthur's urgency to seal their union. Five years was a long time to wait for something they weren't sure they'd even get; the samplings of passion they'd snatched over the years had never been enough. Even so, the right time for the full exploration of their bodies would come.

"A fortnight, then," she'd pressed. "As you say, we've waited this long. What are two more weeks?"

Arthur, wetting his lips and exhaling, had taken her hand. "No," he'd denied gently, his blue eyes intent. "Though I see how important it is to you, my love. I'll meet you halfway: one week." He planted a kiss on her knuckle. "What better way to soothe the kingdom's great losses than the celebration of our union."

"And your announcement about magic and Emrys? Arthur, the kingdom will be in an uproar." She didn't hide her insecurity, and Arthur seeing it had guided Gwen to her feet and grasped her other hand.

"For a time."

"You don't need the distraction of a peasant wife. A queen with no experience."

" _Stop_. Don't ever think of yourself like that." Arthur was cross with her, and Gwen's eyes had widened a little. "You have always been more than I deserved, and I was a fool not to recognize it sooner. I love _you_ , Guinevere." Her heart pounded, and she quaked with desire. Arthur had reached for her hands and cupped them in his. "We'll be fine as long as we have each other. After things stabilize, we'll leave for Tintagel and remain as long as you choose, my love. And upon our return, we'll celebrate your coronation with a month of feasting, tournaments, music, and dancing."

"A canvas to hide the ugliness underneath," Gwen had grumbled even as she'd grabbed hold of his promises once again and before Arthur snaked his arms around her. Her hands rested with natural ease on his chest, pulsing with the slow and steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was the most intimate they'd been since she'd agreed to marry him.

"Camelot needs a queen," he'd consoled gently. "It's been almost three decades and the people deserve you. Only you, Guinevere. As for me, this fool desperately needs you and is nothing without you."

She'd surrendered with a warm smile that he'd boldly swallowed with his lips, his arms tightening around her and forcing hers to circle his neck. His kiss was long and tender, soft and wet, and familiar heat blossomed in her belly, arousing the rest of her body as she fell prey once again to the man and his allure.

Breaking apart and staring at her, he'd brushed his thumbs across her knuckles and squeezed her hands with reassurance as he led her into the sitting chamber. They'd slipped into their chairs as easily as he'd slipped into the familiar pattern of pouring out his heart, bringing her into his confidence and trust as if nothing had ever gone wrong. His confession of how conflicted he'd felt over the day's events, despite the poise he'd displayed during the round table meeting, had endeared him to her even more.

Dressed and nearly ready to leave, Gwen clipped back a lock of hair, and then brushed the rest of her long, brown curls. Time would be needed to unravel the truths surrounding Merlin and the mysteries of the sword, Arthur's magical birth and the prophecies surrounding him. The only way forward was to share the journey of discovery at his side. A storm brewed on the horizon and Arthur was its creator. He would not have to stand alone against the crashing waves of fear and opposition. They'd hold stronger together to endure it no matter what they might face. Gwen sighed and placed the brush on the dresser just as a knock sounded at the door.

Her inner light summarily extinguished when Annis summoned her to the castle.

She fretted the whole way there, Fredrick trailing behind wearing a fine red cloak, his silence a sure indication of his own concern. Perhaps the queen had found problems with the rooms, or worse, meant to dress her down as someone who had no business marrying nobility. She feared their first meeting would not be amiable at all. Gwen figured she'd endure the same hard scrutiny she'd faced from Agravaine and other nobles once Arthur had made his intentions regarding her known. This would be the first time she'd spar with royalty if she didn't count Morgana.

Gwen lifted her chin, resolving to defend her position with the same poise and vigor against Annis as she had with the others just as she crossed the queen's threshold. Expecting a confrontation with the disapproving monarch, Gwen was stunned when Annis offered a warm embrace, some sound advice, and a wardrobe fit for a queen.

"We'll become good friends in due time," the Queen of Gwynedd assured her with a smile. "And as a token that represents our new bond, I'd like to give you something." The nearly imperceptible motion of her head brought one of her servants forward who placed an ornate silver box in the queen's bony, manicured hands. She opened the blue velvet-lined case and drew out a jewel-hilted dagger sheathed in an equally bejeweled scabbard.

"Camelot needs a strong queen, and I've seen you bear such strength. Where I grew up, the women fought alongside our men in battle. Not for glory or honor, but to protect that which we loved. I see a fighter in you, Lady Guinevere, a daring that most women in this land do not possess." Annis presented her with the weapon. "This is a symbol of those qualities we both share."

"Thank you," Gwen replied as she received the gift, adept fingers swiftly fastened the buckle, her knees knocking as she strapped it around her waist .

Annis smiled, swinging a long arm around her shoulders and leading her toward the sleeping chamber. "Arthur was right about you. You are a polished jewel with bones of steel. Hold on to that. You'll need it more than ever now."

"I will. Again, thank you, Highness."

The queen rolled her eyes as she hooked an elbow with Gwen's. "You must address me as 'Annis'. Those titles are reserved for subjects and public places. We're friends now, remember? Do you prefer 'Guinevere'?"

"I'd be honored if you called me 'Gwen'."

"Well, then, Gwen. Let's see if we have anything you like. Arthur informed me of your discerning tastes."

Gwen cocked a quizzical eye at the queen, wondering when the two of them had found time to talk about her, let alone procure decent clothing for her. Annis only smiled wider and tilted her head in the direction of the canopied bed. Four gowns lay splashed across it, a lavender silk trimmed in lace, an embroidered crimson velvet, and two shades of blue satin-one with a bejeweled sheer covering it and the other unadorned, but lovely in its simplicity. Sparkling jewelry meant to compliment the different cuts and designs rested atop each gown: a tiara, sets of earrings with matching necklaces, a circlet of silver sprinkled with jewels. Stockings, shoes, and even undergarments rounded out the wardrobe. Minor adjustments would likely be needed for a proper fit, but these would last her a long time and she wouldn't have to rush sewing appropriate dresses for her role as wife and queen. Gwen caught her breath and smiled with gracious humility.

"Annis, they're all beautiful, and timely. I don't know what to say."

"There is nothing else to be said. Here, let me help you choose something befitting your authority." They both giggled as Annis scooped up the lavender silk, the matching earrings and necklace sliding onto the bedcover. She displayed the scrumptious gown, holding it up for Gwen's observation, her expression cheerful and expectant.

Stunned again by the actions of the monarch who'd apparently adopted her as her charge, Gwen hoped what she said next would not cause offense. "This is most gracious of you, Annis, but I'm needed in the hospital today." She tugged at the sides of her middle-class, but well-fitting dress. "This will do fine."

Queen Annis' smile waned and the glint in her eyes dimmed as she nodded. "Of course, my dear. This is only the beginning of the battle for some. I shall join you there shortly."

Outside the chambers, Gwen noticed the lifted eyebrow on Fredrick's brow and the half smile on his lips as he glimpsed the dagger on her hip. He bowed his head, his grin widening.

"My warrior queen," he said, falling in behind her.

"Oh, shut up," Gwen huffed, but she was smiling herself.

…..

Arthur's long, purposeful strides pounded towards the library as a recurring question nipped at his brain and ego. Why did he take every betrayal so utterly personally, his heart rending to shreds and his stomach twisting fist-sized knots every time a traitor came to light? His father had beat into his head not to trust anyone, and all his life he had followed the lesson-until Merlin and Gwen had demanded otherwise. Their intervention allowed behaviors long buried and ignored to flourish, breaking down barriers as he forged friendships his father would have deemed unworthy. Arthur was sure he trusted more people than his father ever had during his lifetime.

He was not so naïve to think he didn't have enemies; the bitterest of all had been his own family, each taking turns to knife him in the back. Equally upsetting were enemies nesting in his home, supposedly faithful citizens conspiring with Agravaine and using their household positions to cover up, subvert, and undermine his authority, all for the promise of coin.

A stable hand, a scullery maid, a poulter, and three castle guards. Victor, Elise, Richard, Andrew, Eric, and Bendrick. Arthur didn't know them really, until he'd read Merlin's neatly scripted list yesterday, and barely remembered ever encountering any of them. As they stood before him, wretched, sniveling, their treachery undeniable, he knew he would remember them forever now. They were sentenced to die along with the Southrons tomorrow.

The trials of the traitors were only one of many engagements meticulously scheduled by the insufferable George. Arthur had dared Merlin to show his face this morning and resume his normal duties, but the cocky warlock had only grinned and declined. The sorcerer had crops to restore, and truth be told, Arthur wanted his concentration there. He'd just have to start getting used to his new manservant no matter how unhappy the circumstance made him. Still, George excelled at what he did, a credit to his station.

The hour on the training ground that Arthur had insisted be added to his schedule now seemed unreachable, and he doubted he'd get a chance to see Guinevere today, even though warm memories of last night stoked his desire for undisturbed time with her. The inspections, piles of reports waiting to be sorted, an array of meetings, and George stood in the way of that happening. Now he knew how Merlin must have felt shouldering a lengthy list of chores he couldn't avoid.

The royal library had not changed, its towering rows of books covered with dust and cobwebs as uninviting as he remembered, Geoffrey still too lazy for his own good, his loyalty to chronicling in the books greater than keeping them clean. Arthur shoved the disparaging thought aside and decided he'd send a few servants to help clean it up. One day, his sons and daughters would be spending long hours here and he'd rather they not suffer through the same stuffy place he'd had to endure."I have precious little time, Geoffrey. What have you found?"

The burly man's robes rustled as he came from behind the table and wobbled over to another stacked with books, parchments, and a few curious objects he must have been cataloging. He placed his hand on top of three great books bound in leather. "These survived the fire when many other historical and records on magic did not. I saved them against the orders of my king." Geoffrey did not hold Arthur's gaze, dropping his eyes, waiting for a rebuke. When Arthur gave none, he looked up at a king who had reserved all judgement and accusation. He continued.

"They chronicle the early years of the Great Purge. Horrible accounts, Arthur. The kingdom was in chaos. Magical creatures, communities, and holy shrines and buildings were destroyed. Many lives and hopes were extinguished because of one man's fear." The librarian paused in his obvious struggle to restrain expressions between disgust and shame, feelings that Arthur knew his father had never possessed when it came to exterminating all things magical. "These are three of six volumes." He removed his hand and Arthur opened the cover of the book on top.

He read the title page. "The History of the Kingdom of Camelot, Beginning in the year of our Lord six hundred and seventy-four, as recorded by Sir Geoffrey of Monmouth, servant of the King." Between breaths, Arthur turned to the first page, desperately attempting to keep the tremors careening through him from reaching his hand.

He scanned, crystal blue eyes pinpointing key words that blared across the pages. Mass arrests, swift executions, and a town he'd never heard of. He kept going, slowing turning one page at a time, the pain and misery written on them reflected in his expression. Massacres, persecutions, a war on an island that lasted three years, and of course, a drowning. A grotesque depiction of a village massacre drawn in brilliant color adorned one page. Arthur shivered and closed the book. These were chronicles two years after he was born, and he'd viewed only the first few pages.

"Over there," Geoffrey said, lifting an arm. "The shelves leading to the south wing are the warrants and execution decrees ordered over time."

"I don't understand." Arthur forced himself not to look in the direction of the shelves stuffed with scrolls, knowing some of them contained his own contributions. "Why didn't the sorcerers rise up against us? If they had magic, why didn't they fight back?"

"Because they fought each other for a time. Some sorcerers were under Uther's banner. It took many years to tear down the organized sects and dark orders of the Old Religion. Uther lost many men, and in his unrelenting pursuit of so many, he began to see enemies everywhere."

"He turned against his allies."

"Yes, and then turned suspicious eyes upon his own people in search of collaborators and conspirators. Anyone who touched magic. Arthur, why do you suppose there are so many ruins in our kingdom? Twice as many if not more than any other?"

Their land was indeed marred with castle remains and decimated villages that time and nature had consumed. Some ruins held historical significance and were famously documented; others suffered the fate of debris and decay. Arthur had used many of them for shelter, never really considering the cause of their demise, that he had been treading on someone's lost dream, casualties of Uther's senseless war.

"Geoffrey," he asked softly in contemplation. "How was he able to destroy the dragons? Our forces could hardly take down one."

"Oh, he couldn't kill the dragons-they were too many, very fierce and formidable along with the powerful dragonlords. When the dragonlords realized they could no longer rely on the favor of the king, it was too late. He slaughtered them by means of assassins. The dragons fled to faraway lands, never to be seen in these parts again. Until, that is, the Great Dragon escaped. Gaius believed that before the dragonlords were killed, one of them must have commanded the remaining beasts to save themselves and abandon the kingdom. "

"Balinor…perhaps…."

"Perhaps, since we now know he apparently survived his assassination attempt."

Arthur hummed thoughtfully. Merlin would be happy to hear this news, that the dragons may indeed be alive thanks to his father, Balinor. God, he hoped that Merlin would not summon them back. Even if his friend could tame them, they had enough to handle without reintroducing the scaly beasts to his people.

"Why did my father not tell me this? Why let everyone believe a lie?"

"Uther wanted to be feared and letting it be known that the dragons had escaped would have undermined his appearance of absolute control. When he realized he could not kill the dragons, he captured one and imprisoned it in the catacombs, and then concealed the great cavern's entrance somewhere in the Tancred Mountains." The librarian heaved a mighty sigh.

"Arthur, there were as many heroes on both sides as there were villains. If these deeds were not so horribly true, they would make great storytelling to scare little children. As it stands, they're recorded blights upon Camelot's history and King Uther's legacy. Here." Three additional books, much thinner and smaller were placed atop the larger ones.

"These are the forbidden documents concerning the purge. One is Uther's own personal chronicle, but they were all sealed by him. I must warn you, Arthur. Unspeakable atrocities are within these pages that began with your birth, testimonies by some witnesses who died to preserve the truth. There are reasons they were sealed."

The lump that formed scorched Arthur's throat and he managed a nod. He loved his father, admired him even, but had never aspired to be like him. Time and deed had revealed just how imperfect his father had been, even though he'd obeyed, defended, or forgiven most of Uther's harsh and unyielding orders. Geoffrey's words set a yoke upon his neck. The truth concealed all his life, Excalibur's influence on him, and Merlin's unselfish valor intensified the weight of it.

"The laws governing sorcery and the use of magic are absolute with no consideration for the degree of use or purpose."

"Of course. My father spared no one, no matter if they were innocent or the act of sorcery benign."

"Indeed." Geoffrey laid a scroll atop the books. "This is the written law that condemned every sorcerer your father judged."

One scroll. One piece of aged parchment had decided the fate of so many.

Arthur's bottom lip trembled, fury shrouding his face. "This is all it took? A few strokes of the quill?"

"You know better than any of us how powerful the words of kings can be no matter how few they are."

"I've seen taxation laws laid down in as many as ten scrolls, Geoffrey. Th-This-" Arthur sputtered before clamping his mouth shut and grinding his jaw.

"A law of generality to encompass many violations was all that was necessary in this case."

Arthur was red-faced. "A brilliant stroke of _your_ pen, I'd say." The cut was deep and quickly regretted as Geoffrey paled, his own culpability etched across his face and evidenced in his stiff countenance. Arthur's steam evaporated and he placed a hand on the librarian's arm. "My apologies, Geoffrey. Truly. There were many who turned a blind eye out of fear or misguided trust, including myself. I hold no fault with you."

Geoffrey visibly relaxed as Arthur withdrew his hand. "Sire, I've lived with a knowledge that many would find difficult to bear. It's absolutely terrifying and heart-breaking to chronicle the faults of a king out of touch."

"You mean who'd lost his mind."

Geoffrey seemed to agree nonverbally and noncommittally as he shifted on his toes, his eyes dropping to the floor before lifting his bushy eyebrows. "It will take but a few strokes to undo your father's work, Arthur, if we forego council deliberations."

The legacy of Uther Pendragon would keep his kingdom divided. People who shared different beliefs, lived different ways, and possessed splendid natural gifts would continue to fear the Pendragon name even if Arthur no longer sought their harm. His father had never understood the connection of magic to this world and surely was afraid to acknowledge the truths behind it.

"Have these delivered to my chambers. I'll review them every chance I get. See to that repeal. I want it clear that those who practice magic will no longer be punished indiscriminately, only for acts of sorcery with intent to harm. I'm easing the laws on magic and Camelot will become a place of tolerance, safe and open to all. Am I understood?"

"Quite, my lord. It will be a brilliant stroke of my pen." Geoffrey kept his face stoic though his eyes twinkled with mischief. The man prided himself on his meticulous works.

"It'd better," the king replied with a half-embarrassed smile. "We're going to get it right this time." Turning to depart, Arthur's next item on his long list of duties wiggled its way to the forefront-inspections of the siege tunnel entry points that would consume the rest of his morning. Time on the training ground was scheduled after that and Arthur was sure he'd need it. Somewhere down the line, a meal had to be taken. Guinevere would need to eat, too.

"My lord," Geoffrey called after the king, halting him in his tracks. "There is one other matter." Arthur turned around, pushing his rambling thoughts aside for the moment. "Am I to presume you'll be conscripting knights from the other provinces?"

"As we've always done after a costly war."

The manpower report had sorely bothered Arthur. He needed men. This war had reduced his ranks by seven percent; one third was lost to the Immortal army two years ago and a few hundred had fallen during their first battle with Cenred and Morgause now four years past. He'd lost Leon this time around, too, not to the sword, but to his conscience. His absence was not only a devastating loss to his military might, but to Arthur personally.

"I've begun compiling the seals of suitable knights in anticipation of this need, including those from Clarwick."

"Good," Arthur agreed. "They're brave fighters. We'll need them here for a time." This would be the first time he'd have to call upon noble sons and fathers from across the kingdom to train and fight in his name. They would not be enough. He'd realized a whole fighting force had been neglected by his father when he knighted Gwaine, Elyan, and Percival, the potential strength and numbers in any able-bodied man, not just the nobility was a valuable asset now.

"Be sure to issue a decree for the call of any lower class who desires to serve, special consideration for those who have seen battle. If they swear by the code and commit to training, then they are to be added to the roster. I trust you'll ensure equitable wages and entitlements for these new soldiers." He expected Percival and the captains would face opposition within the ranks with these new orders but trusted his commanders to keep it under control.

His final words received an approving nod from the librarian, and Arthur turned to leave, his thoughts already shifting to Guinevere instead of the inspections ahead. Perhaps, he'd invite her to a late-night stroll in the gardens. Colorful summer foliage had blossomed, and he could appreciate the beauty if not name the particular blooms. That was Leon's specialty. A smile traced Arthur's lips as he recalled his former first knight's incongruous ability to identify types of flowers, how he'd teased him when the occasion struck.

"My lord," Geoffrey called once more, drawing the retreating king back to him again and causing Arthur to fight his frustration. "I'm afraid there's a knight from Clarwick who isn't who he claims to be."

 _Why am I not surprised?_ flashed in the king's mind. "What do you mean?" was what came out.

"There isn't a record of a 'Sir Maxwell' currently serving in Clarwick."

Arthur clamped his lips and closed the distance to Geoffrey, eyes hooded, the taste of betrayal bitter again in his mouth. His gut had told him that Maxwell was hiding something and why not? Arthur had lost count of how many secrets had been unveiled the last few days. "Tell me."

" _Lord_ Maxwell had three sons and two daughters, none of whom was his namesake." There were many lords and vassals in the kingdom and Arthur knew well only the ones that frequented court and the handful his father had visited annually. Clarwick was an important holding due to its strategic location in the south, but Arthur remembered only Lord Gregory, not so much the other lords and vassals in the province.

"Go on," Arthur prompted, hands going to his hips.

Geoffrey scurried his bulk to another table just as cluttered, lifting a book and opening to a marked page. "The eldest son is in line to inherit Lord Maxwell's legacy and the second son died of fever as a child."

"The third?"

"Squired in Clarwick to become a knight. His name is Galahad."

…..

End note: You may have noticed that Percival has a new character attribute and I've updated a few of his past scenes to incorporate his faith. Historically, during this period, Christianity was the only recognized religion and heavily controlled by the Catholic Church.


	26. Tomorrow's Ending

A/N: I can't thank Charis77 enough for her help with this chapter and I hope you thank her, too (go read her fantastic fics). Otherwise, I'd still be trying to "get this right" and you'd still be waiting. She is an immense help with these last chapters and I'd be nowhere without her. Her time and effort are greatly appreciated. IDOM. I wish it'd come back.

Chapter 26 Tomorrow's Ending

…..

Three days to go until Arthur expected him to restore the burnt crops and Merlin had already found the perfect spell; he just hadn't managed to properly cast the long and complicated incantation. The wrong inflection caused wilting, a misspoken word resulted in disintegration, and a forgotten verse exploded his test sample, covering him with grainy powder.

Gaius' timely snore sounded very close to a chortle, and Merlin sighed, rolling his eyes as if the sleeping physician had actually mocked him. He leaned into the table, his shoulders slumping further and knowing full well he was trying too hard. After all the years of hiding, his magic wanted nothing more than to burst forth in glorious freedom, but he kept failing to control its excitable release. Add to that guilt's haunting intrusion, it was no wonder he couldn't cast the spell correctly.

The burden of keeping his magic so tightly wrapped all his life still hung heavy around his neck, for he'd become a liar to save it, doubting from the start Arthur's trust in him. Most of the time, he'd truly believed he could confide only in Gaius. Well, except Lancelot, who had figured it out when together they'd killed the griffin. His friend had taken his secret to the grave. And apparently, Gwaine had known from the very first time he'd met the rogue noble, and even with his tendency to chatter, had never revealed it. There was Gilli and Will, too; and even Mordred knew he was Emrys and hadn't betrayed him. Gods, how wrong he'd been. He could easily understand how Arthur might dismiss his words claiming belief in his king and conviction for his cause. He hadn't trusted his closest friend with the most important part of his entire life. With all his heart, he'd wanted to trust Arthur—and Gwen. Opportunities had presented themselves, but several horrible events marred by magic had snatched them away, any chance of confession dying on his lips. He'd believed so strongly in the certainty of the prophecies concerning his friends. If he'd told them, it wouldn't have changed their destinies. So why hadn't he fully trusted them? Did fear of death make him a coward, stealing his courage and replacing it with trickery and deceit?

Truth was, he also didn't want to put his friends at risk. Too many had suffered or died to fulfill destiny. Such terrible losses would not be in vain, Merlin vowed. He'd bring his friends into his full confidence from now on. No more secrets. Arthur and Gwen were moving forward in unity and trust, forgiving the sins of the past. He could do the same.

As if the yoke had broken its chains, a heaviness lifted from his shoulders and Merlin exhaled a cleansing breath. So much was about to change, exceeding all he'd ever hoped and dreamed. He could freely study and practice and save lives without fear. His abilities would openly help Arthur shape the future of Camelot, uniting the land, beginning a new age, and bringing Albion to fruition. Merlin felt lightheaded and his eyes glazed, the magnitude of such feats surreal and frightful now that they were tangibly within his reach. He staggered to a bench and sank down, feeling heavy again.

Arthur believed a show of good will on behalf of benevolent sorcerers would prove magic beneficial for all. The scorched fields and orchards would regenerate under Emrys' hand, his spell cultivating and revitalizing precious nutrients in the soil, speeding up recovery and exciting new growth. The fruits of their labor would bear almost instantly, once destroyed crops bursting with life and color and hope.

That was if he could get the spell to work.

Merlin plucked at the remains of the damaged vegetables strewn across the tabletop, ruminating. Even if he did successfully revive the harvest, would saving the city and the surrounding villages from imminent food scarcity be enough to calm their fear of Emrys, at least for a time? He didn't expect them to accept a sorcerer immediately, but perhaps his actions could gain a reprieve and a hearing. After all, Dragoon was a wanted criminal; he would be forced to explain himself. He believed his explanations could stand on merit as he'd tried to help in both instances.

He gathered the dust of his failed attempts into a cupped palm, deciding he'd try again at nightfall. He risked exposure practicing the spell in broad daylight with so many people roaming about the castle; anyone could walk in at any time. He rose, dispensing the dust into a bucket and bundling the unused samples into a sack. He should seek out Kilgharrah. The dragon had a knack for aiding when matters were dire.

Merlin brushed the dirt and debris from his clothes, and then rumbled through the cupboard, searching for a piece of cloth to clean his face and hands. Calling Kilgharrah wouldn't be so easy this time with so many travelers encamped around the castle. Their meeting place had transformed into a tent city. He'd also be required to shoulder his new duties as court physician and report to the hospital as soon as he was done here. Perhaps he could speak with Maxwell and get his help identifying the error he was making with the spell, though he wasn't sure when the knight would return from his mission to Castle Chime. He might be stuck figuring it out on his own.

Merlin dipped the dingy cloth in a bucket of water over the spit fire, then wiped his face. Maxwell ranked amongst the most powerful sorcerers he'd encountered since leaving Ealdor. The knight had enjoyed the privilege of study and practice for many years and was leagues above him in magic craft. He'd also been gifted a patron who'd supported him, who'd kept his secret and used his abilities, defying Uther and protecting him. How many more Maxwells and Gregorys were out there? He'd long felt there had to be others in the kingdom like Maxwell, hiding in plain sight and living in fear, and those like Lord Gregory, risking their lives to save sorcerer friends. With the ban lifted, Merlin prayed they would step out from the shadows to work together, using their gifts to build a better Camelot for all.

Another snort from Gaius drew Merlin's attention, and this time elicited amusement at its timeliness. It didn't last. Merlin's humor dissolved into a tight frown as he considered the physician. Two days since they'd returned and color had not returned to Gaius' cheeks. His appetite was nonexistent considering he'd nearly starved to death, and he insisted on making remedies for the most critically wounded as well as treating some of them. Yesterday, he'd taken twice as long to concoct the potions—he had to sit and rest a while between each—and three times as long to make his rounds. The ailing healer had insisted restoring the harvest took precedence over Merlin's duties as his personal physician. Flourishing crops to halt starvation were worth more than his own declining health.

Merlin refused to believe such a thing. He'd already made the potions today, and only after Gaius had eaten something hearty would he allow him to care for his patients today. He'd even risked crafting the Sorcerer's Chime and chanced exposure by dangling it from the trellis nearest Gaius' cot. The healing totem would soothe his aching bones and atrophying muscles, speeding up his recovery and restoring his energy. Camelot's newest physician had taken charge, and Gaius could fall in line. Merlin intended his mentor to live for many years to come, and if the old man wouldn't take care of himself, then he'd do it for him. Gaius had been a father to him, and like a son, he'd support him in his twilight years as a thank you for all he'd done.

Merlin straightened in his seat, a thought occurring to him. Since Gaius was to retire, and he to take up position as the new court physician, _he'd_ need an apprentice and some means to pay him. He jolted as if something sharp had pierced his body, another thought coming to him. He steadied himself against the table.

Money had never meant anything to him, save the portions of his wages he sent to his mother each month. Now he'd earn a hefty salary, enough to bring her to Camelot to live the life she deserved. The magic in him began to tingle knowing that his family would soon be together and complete and Merlin's entire countenance was revived. He'd fix the spell, get it right. He had to. For his mother. For his freedom. For Albion.

…..

Sirs Kolby and Maxwell stood before his desk, the musk of the two men permeating Arthur's quarters, familiar odors of extended missions and days of hard riding. The king shifted in his seat with frustration more than discomfort. The news that the pigeon master had been killed didn't surprise him, but he'd hoped for better. The sorcerer may have had knowledge of other conspirators, his position at Castle Chime a hub for the flow of information, and he'd needed to know how far Morgana's grasp had reached. She'd aligned with one king in the past. Were there others who'd plotted his death, awaiting benefit from her rule had she succeeded?

"Sire," Kolby reported, dirt and grime clinging to his face, chainmail, and cloak. "The pigeon keeper resisted at every turn. He wouldn't yield even with a sword to his gullet."

"He started to incant a spell, my liege," Maxwell explained. "Calling upon his sorcery."

"You couldn't gag him?" the king asked irritably, red-rimmed eyes as piercing as a javelin and hitting two targets at once. "Render him unconscious?" It was late; he'd had a long and busy day, and he'd spent the last unsettling hours reviewing his father's sealed records instead of taking that walk with Gwen in the gardens like he should have. His eyes weren't strained red just from reading in low light.

"He proved himself a threat," Maxwell asserted firmly. "Bringing him here only increased the chances of him using magic to aid Morgana."

"Her magic is bound," the king replied with equal measure and a glare that demanded submission. "We could have done the same for him. I made it clear that I wanted him unharmed."

"I feared for the lives of my men, my lord," Kolby admitted, taking responsibility. "He died by my sword."

It was done, a half-failed mission, but Arthur relented with a stiff nod, knowing that Cyr would not be the last sorcerer to distrust the crown and fight to the death rather than capitulate. "I understand the risks involved in apprehending a true sorcerer. I had hoped to interrogate him, but I'm pleased none of our own was injured. That will be all, gentlemen."

They both bowed their heads and turned to depart. "Sir Galahad," Arthur said, pinning Maxwell in place before the knight turned and threw a conflicted stare at the king. "A moment."

Kolby, having taken a few more steps and oblivious to the interchange, stopped and threw curious glances at them. Arthur dismissed him before the captain asked the question forming on his lips. Rounding his desk to stand before Galahad, he measured the man as he approached. He'd known him less than a week yet had already deemed him a fine knight with keen intellect and superior fighting skills. He was clever and obviously brave, but he held a secret and Arthur had had enough of those.

"Tell me why a noble son would have to conceal his identity." The king stared hard into the young knight's dark brown eyes, his tenor dropping dangerously. "And why you would desert the camp on the eve of battle."

Arthur may as well have punched him in the gut by the agonized look that crossed the man's face. "Sire… I…" In his search for words, his brow drew tight before meeting the king's with resigned eyes. "Yes, I… I suppose I did desert the encampment, but not the battle."

Arthur crossed his arms, his face puckering with a frown. "Explain."

"I…" Galahad closed his eyes and exhaled. When he opened them, his conviction was undeniable to Arthur. "Sire, the only chance we had at succeeding in this battle was if Morgana's sorcerers were eliminated before it began. I had the ability to do that. I deemed it as my duty."

"You traveled to Camelot on foot, stole Morgana's magic, and battled two sorcerers in the span of a night?" Arthur scoffed. "You couldn't possibly triumph against such odds unless you're a sorcerer yourself."

"I am, my lord," he stated matter-of-factly. "And there were four. And Emrys took care of Morgana. After he teleported us there."

Arthur froze, blinked, and then released a pent-up breath. Merlin had not told him this, yet it explained his disappearance. He returned to his chair and sat, placing an elbow on the arm and palming his cheek. After a moment of silence, he motioned with his head for the man to speak, his own words stuck in his throat.

"One I killed a few days before encountering you and Lady Guinevere in the forest. The other three here in Camelot."

Arthur listened to Galahad's account of his part in the war with expressions of awe, anger, and contrition during his telling of the beautiful, but deadly sorcerer and the demise of the Southron rear guard. Of how the apothecary had killed himself when Galahad had deflected a strike and the sorcerer had landed on his own poisoned dagger. Of the arrogant officer he'd fought hand-to-hand, and then had slit his throat, a timely strike with the same poisoned knife. How he'd kept the last one, a cunning illusionist, from joining the battle, and how he'd eventually escaped.

More acts of bravery for the sake of the kingdom. Such was expected of a knight sworn to duty, and Arthur was grateful for his many valiant men. To find another sorcerer protecting his holdings and fighting for his cause stupefied him. If the man's secret had been ferreted out, he'd likely have been killed and a valuable asset lost. Arthur wasn't sure if he was angrier at his father for feeding him lies about sorcerers all these years or at himself for swallowing them so readily. All that Arthur could see before him now was a knight protecting his kingdom and employing his own special talents.

"Can I assume, then," Arthur inferred, straightening in his chair and lacing his fingers, "that you changed your name because of your magic. To protect your family?" Galahad had confessed to a capital crime with little hesitation, and Arthur admired that he'd shown trust in his king. Or perhaps Merlin had already shared the news that magic would be freed soon and he saw no reason to fear. When the knight actually chuckled, the king's eyebrows rose into his hair, the seriousness of his questions lost.

"Forgive my impudence, my lord." Galahad cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders, though the laughter did not leave his eyes. "When I was young, my grandmother confused me with her son and began calling me by my father's name. It was very perplexing for a child of three, but she'd been ill for a very long time, and everyone just let it continue. Besides, it made her happy and caused no harm. The usage of the nickname has become second nature to me. I had no intention to deceive."

"But your name is Galahad. When you presented your seal to Lord Gregory, how did he receive you?"

"I didn't realize how close he really was to my family. He knew my grandmother when they were younger and had heard of her decline in her later years. For a long time, I'd thought his visits to the manor consisted mainly of collecting taxes. I'd never suspected it was more, that he was fond of her and knew of her eccentricities. He allowed me to continue to use it because I think he knew it was what she would have wanted. Now that I think on it, it could also be why he allowed me … certain privileges."

"I see," Arthur replied, realizing that not all secrets were rooted in evil or deceit, that Galahad was just as normal as any of them. The king leaned back in his chair. "You have my gratitude for all that you've done for the kingdom, but I must insist, Sir _Galahad_ , that you use your given name henceforth as I cannot abide any more secrets amongst my men. Hide nothing from me when the ban is lifted."

"I understand, Your Majesty."

"Very good. Now, I want you detailed here in Camelot for a few rotations. Perhaps, give Merlin a hand."

Galahad's smile was broad and appreciative. "Yes, sire."

"Inform your captain that I've granted his men a day of rest. You've earned it."

"Sire," Galahad exclaimed, his joy flitting away as he took a few steps forward. "You'll need every man tomorrow. I didn't recognize Camelot's countryside with the number of banners and encampments surrounding the city. I've never seen so many people."

Arthur hummed and shifted in his chair again, leaning forward as his fists balled involuntarily. The rest of his body stiffened as well. "I wager it's due to Morgana mostly. Many want to see her pay for her years of terror against the kingdom. For… For her betrayal. Can you blame them?" Silence fell long enough for the inevitability of tomorrow to niggle its way into his consciousness before he shoved it aside. "Our numbers are more than adequate with the aid of our allies. Now take the day. We can handle it without the seven of you."

"Very well, my lord." Galahad bowed deeply, a look of deferential respect on his face. "And thank you, King Arthur. Your pardon and trust has removed a burdensome flaw in my character."

"I can only hope that others will trust me enough to believe that I mean them no harm. This kingdom must look to the future and change, or else we will destroy ourselves over something that never should have been. I'll need your help, Galahad. So will Merlin. Can I count on your support?"

"I'm here to serve, my king. I will do everything in my power to help you succeed."

"For the sake of us all." Arthur smiled with gratitude, but the expression slipped as soon as the young knight turned his back. Two sorcerers, right under his nose; he could never have fathomed that. Neither of them had held enough faith in him to confide in him, assumed he would not have made a decision in their favor had he been forced to choose. Arthur couldn't say now what he would have done then, but why hadn't _they_ believed in _him_? A hand had made its way to press against the stack of thin books, the forbidden records. The gloom returned to Arthur and the weariness of the day finally manifested, every muscle in his body screaming for respite.

He knew the law and fear of execution had held them hostage, but Merlin? Merlin obviously had never trusted him fully. Had his friend truly believed in the prophesy if he had not believed in the man? Arthur lifted the thin book and opened it to the place he'd marked. Knowing now the contents of their pages and the madness of his father, he honestly couldn't blame them no matter how much it hurt.

"Damn it," he cursed under his breath, fingers massaging his temple. "Just damn it all."

…..

Percival was exhausted, but welcoming castle spires beckoned in the moonlight, calling him forward. He'd be lucky to snatch a few hours' sleep after getting back. He had rosters to check, rounds to make, and the daily reports of the captains to read before even considering his lumpy mattress and flat pillow, heaven in disguise. Even so, his lack of rest was worth it; he'd fulfilled his vow and found his woman. Percival was betrothed.

The farmer hadn't been as brow-beaten as Percival assumed when he'd observed the man's wife overturning his objections and taking charge when he'd first met them. In fact, the man adored his wife and simply gave in to avoid meaningless quarrels. During his visit, the two had displayed affections befitting love-struck newlyweds now, much to Percival's discomfit.

Gerans Nance had been impressed that Percival had returned the horse, a better horse, actually, losing the bet he'd extended to his wife and daughter when the knight had ridden off over a week ago. Percival had been amused until he learned the farmer's opinion of Camelot's so-called finest had been colored years ago. A patrol seeking shelter from a storm had commandeered their home, forcing the then young couple with a baby on the way to attend them as they devoured all their food and disrupted their lives. One of them had dared to touch his wife even in her delicate state. He'd defended her fiercely, questioned the knight's honor, and never trusted knights since.

Kensa Nance had taken her father up on his bet and staked her dowry on Percival's own honor, leaving it up to him whether to accept or not. Such a bold and presumptuous move. Gwaine would have thanked the farmer right away and then high-tailed it out of there. Everyone knew the rogue was happy as things stood and wasn't to be tamed. Percival, on the other hand, had fallen even harder for the girl, his feelings deepened by the blind faith she extended to someone she did not know.

She was prettier than he'd remembered—long, blonde hair, untamed but not tangled, haloed high cheekbones, one of them smudged with dirt. Clear blue eyes proclaimed intelligence and mystery, drawing him in further. Her round nose sprinkled with freckles rested above full pink lips requiring no further color. She was tall, fit, and void of excessive curves; Percival exerted great effort to keep his eyes from dropping to her small, firm breasts. Her tanned skin bore a few white scars that tracked across toned arms, professing a strength that promised a heartier body than the ladies of the court. Her hands were slender, calloused, sporting thin lines of dirt under short, chipped nails. She'd reminded him of the girls in his farming village and the qualities in the character of a simple life. Percival had smiled warmly, then removed a three-strand leather band from his wrist and tied it around hers. They were betrothed, and in a year, they'd marry.

He deeply desired the woman. He would have taken her as a wife even without the dowry, the hard-earned land of her family and the bag of gold saved over her lifetime. He'd refused the wealth. She'd lost two brothers earlier in the year, killed by "ghosts" as she'd explained, frozen to death on their way home from a hunt. Her parents' property would pass to her when they left this world. If there ever came a time to leave the great city and he laid down his sword, they could return to her property and live out their lives there. He'd be a landowner soon himself, the manor and land he'd been granted from Arthur displacing a disloyal noble stripped of his title and holdings. Percival wasn't sure how he felt about that, earning something he'd not worked for with his own hands and uprooting a family from its ancestral roots and privileged comforts.

Percival planned to visit Kensa as often as possible and then bring her to Camelot in half a year's time. She'd stay in the castle while he remained in the barracks, giving her a chance to become familiar with the city, meet his friends, and take lessons in court etiquette. He hoped Gwen could help with that part. Kensa must learn to be a lady of Camelot.

The clop of the horse's hooves on the cobblestone in the dead of night rang in Percival's ears, intensifying the headache that had crept in a few leagues back, but it was the most wonderful sound he'd ever heard as the knight's barracks came within eyeshot. Jumping from his horse and handing the reins to a guard and then untying his satchel, he looked up toward the king's private windows, stained glass still alight.

The tenth hour had just passed. It appeared he would not be the only one burning candles into the next day.


	27. The Bitterest of All

A/N: Greetings, my friends! I have to say that this was one of the hardest to compose, but thanks the Charis77, we've produced a pretty good chapter. I cannibalized a three-parter (that I scrapped) for this chapter and the next and it took a while to get all the transitions and Merlin's single POV for this one worked out. I hope you enjoy. And many, many thanks to Charis77. She's an angel. IDOM.

…..

Chapter 27 The Bitterest of All

…..

Somber blue eyes wandered across the mob in the courtyard as Merlin gazed upon them from the balcony. He stood to the right of and a step behind Arthur and Gwen, all of them flanked at the back by Fredrick and a contingent of knights. He had never seen so many people in the square in all his time here, the drab dress of the peasantry mingled with the vibrant colors of the privileged, and never had they been so collectively rancorous, slinging refuse and stones, and cursing the Southron soldiers filing out of the dungeons. They marched to the cadence of the drums through the courtyard and continued down the gauntlet in the streets. Merlin's fingers dug into the sides of his pant legs, the frenetic energy and thrum of the drums setting his nerves on fire.

The covered walkway burst with spectators, the stretch of balconies above them a mix of dignitaries, Camelot nobility, and allied guards and archers. A few children were perched on the well that was now covered, as if Percival had had the foresight to consider the use of every bit of space to accommodate the masses. The mobs viewing sorcerers' executions during Uther's reign were smaller and more subdued, stunted by hopelessness and fear in the face of their king's self-righteousness. Not so today. Magic and sorcery played a part in Morgana's rise and the desolation of Camelot, but this was about the wages of war and the kingdom that had suffered it. Subjects had come in droves to witness this spectacle, perhaps more than the early years of the Great Purge and Vortigern's previous reign. Arthur's display of harsh justice now joined the ranks of other brutal kings, some would say. Arthur had grown up.

Merlin leaned forwards. He could see a space cordoned off for the firing squad on the far side of the courtyard. Shackled prisoners would line up against the barracks' wall when they were brought in. The platform for the beheadings was to his right, built in front of the chapel. Three scaffolds to his left rounded out the exhibition. Carts to haul away the dead in between the action were stationed close by, more kids already climbing up on them for a better view. The merchant booths and stalls normally dotting the three main arteries of Camelot had been dismantled and set up on other streets or alleys, making way for single-man gallows spaced at even intervals along the lanes. These snaked through the city and out the main gates, extending well into the forests. Low ranking warriors endured this gauntlet as they marched towards their doom. Three hundred and ninety-seven souls would face justice today. Morgana made one more.

Merlin's gaze landed on Morgana's platform, center stage and circled by a small patch of cobblestones cordoned with guards and spears. A hooded executioner, tall and stout, stood at ease on it, a broadsword's blade tip-down between his legs, the woodblock at the perfect distance. The so-called high priestess hadn't appeared yet. After all, she would be the last to face the blade instead of the first. Still, Merlin expected guards to lead her out soon. The king didn't want to rob her of witnessing the consequences of her labor. The drums' beats throbbed in his head, the cadence heralding the nearness of death.

Merlin shivered as the warm morning sunlight dissolved, swallowed by a cloud's cover, veiling them in shadow. He'd first heard that beat when he arrived in Camelot seven years ago, thrumping when he'd entered the courtyard and someone else had died to its rhythm. They'd beat for him once, too, when he'd blundered an aging spell disguised as Dragoon the Great and couldn't change back to his younger self. The simple musical instruments instilled dread in him even if they were for another. They beat for Morgana now, and when she emerged from the dungeon gates, the collective gasp of the mob was more eerie than the silent pause that followed, echoing with the clank of prisoner's chains. Pleas from her men to save them now may as well have fallen on deaf ears.

Morgana's once-lustrous hair had been chopped as short as a boy's to disgrace her as much as provide a clean cut of her neck. Her skin had paled, the gloss it once held faded away, yet her natural beauty remained. Long, dark brows had thickened over blue eyes fresh and clear, and lips that never needed color pinched tight with defiance. The light of day exposed every patched-up rip of her tattered black gown and a handbreadth of dirt and mud bordered its hem. The binding bracelet peeked from under a ragged sleeve, no sign of recent tampering, no fresh blood seeping from beneath.

Merlin wasn't surprised by everyone's reaction to her, their shock the sum of what he'd experienced last night. But unlike then, Morgana displayed neither fear nor remorse despite her imminent predicament, instead glaring ominously, a challenge to anyone who dared strike out at her, the refuse in some of their hands at the ready. She commanded no power in her long walk to the platform, magical or otherwise, but many still feared her. The remnants of her army, as well as Agravaine's collaborators, continued down the gauntlet, begging for her help.

A harrowing cackle rose above the hum of the mob, prickling Merlin's skin, and his gaze shot to a woman ravaged with age perching on the edge of the covered well and dangling her feet with glee. Such rapturous delight at the prospect of an execution caused an involuntary shiver down his spine just as Arthur reached for Gwen's hand.

"Look at her, Guinevere," the king insisted, an edge to his voice. "This is not the Morgana we knew." He turned his head to Gwen, and she to him. "She died a long time ago. That woman is a stranger to us."

Merlin realized the truth of those words many years ago, had discovered her true intentions once she'd returned from her disappearance. Morgana reviled him, Uther, Gwen, Arthur, all of Camelot and sought their deaths. The last utterance he'd heard from her was a curse upon Arthur's bloodline for a bleak and heirless future, the end of the Pendragon name. Merlin couldn't see the king's face as he released Gwen's hand, but he did catch a tear rolling down her cheek.

Gwen's compassion amazed him. In spite of the unthinkable torments Morgana had foisted upon her, she still found room for mourning in her heart. So did Merlin, regretting once again what he could have done to keep Morgana's star shining bright. His intervention might have prevented this utterly bleak and heartbreaking end to someone once so loved. Morgana lowered her eyes long enough to climb the one-step platform, then lifted an icy stare toward the balcony while the Southron soldiers continued down their fateful path past her. A soft sigh escaped Gwen and Merlin glanced at her again.

Sweet Gwen. For the first time since he'd known her, she truly looked her part, a queen commanding respect even without trying. A tiara graced her forehead, a circlet of finely woven silver strands studded with small blue crystals accenting a larger jewel at its center. Matching earrings dangled from her lobes. Her neck was bare, but a blue satin gown accentuating her curves and a shiny bejeweled dagger at her hip drew attention anyway. She was a vision of opulent beauty and power. He was so proud of her.

Merlin's eyes slid to the king. Arthur's posture was as stiff as the stone railing that he stood behind, but it, along with the eight-pointed fleur-de-lis crown on his head and ceremonial red cape marked him as a true king. Merlin had insisted on making the walk to the balcony with him, to be there for him when the fatal sword fell.

Merlin had worked all yesterday in the hospital alongside Gwen and then Queen Annis for a time, the women offering abled assistance and timely breaks for him. Arthur and King Rodor had made rounds, too, offering words of encouragement to the injured and a heartfelt hand to the dying, thanking them for their bravery. It was the only time he'd seen the king that day.

This morning, after dismissing George in favor of his old manservant, Arthur had abstained from their customary battle-of-wits. Merlin had meant to attempt banter once more, ease his friend's tension, but Arthur's expression bore the judiciousness of a king and not the camaraderie of a brother. Merlin had sensed Arthur needed him to truly listen and not comfort him with mindless chatter.

These would be the first executions in his name with no king father to stand behind. The blood of hundreds would paint the streets of his capital on his orders, including the last of his family, the bastard daughter of Uther who had once been a friend rather than an enemy. Geoffrey's quill would record these events, scratch out the history of Arthur Pendragon for posterity just as it had his father's. Every action he took and every word he spoke would be indelibly stamped on the ages to come. What he felt, Merlin realized, was the weight of destiny, the very shadow that had daunted his own steps for so many years.

"Guinevere was right," Arthur had ruminated, stuffing his gloves under his belts, Excalibur sheathed in a suitable leather scabbard and strapped to his side. "This is a dark mark to begin the so-called Golden Age. An era of peace begun with bloodshed. It seems wrong somehow, yet this is justice, Merlin. I cannot deny my people their right to see those who have destroyed their families and livelihoods receive their due."

He'd had no words to soothe Arthur's conflicted emotions. He understood too well the difficulties destiny presented one with. He could not deny that the name of Arthur Pendragon would forever be linked with the blood spilled today. It might have been justice, but that didn't make it easy or comfortable.

The king had looked away and stared for a long moment at three crowns on display in an opened cupboard. He rushed to them, grabbing the eight-pointed fleur-de-lis and then stalking out of his chambers. There would be no escape from what must be, and although Merlin didn't envy his king, he empathized far more than Arthur knew.

Merlin was grateful when Gwen had rounded a corner bedecked in a dazzling light blue gown and sporting the bejeweled dagger strapped to her hips. The internal battle of the king had been conquered when he laid eyes on her. His future queen infused Arthur with the strength to embrace the way forward. He'd settled the crown on his head, kissed her softly, and then extended an elbow to her.

The thrum of the drums filtered out the din for a moment, timing its beat to the emergence of the high-ranking Southron officers being led toward the firing squad. Upon seeing Morgana, the pitiable and afraid begged the High Priestess to save them with her magic, shadows of their once formidable selves receiving rotten produce instead. The sixteen berserkers with no fight left in them lined up at the chopping block, their chains clinking and heads hung low. A stone grazed a Southron's head and liquid life oozed from the gash. The old crone's screech pierced Merlin's ears again and he ground his teeth More blood was about to fall. How would she react when heads started to roll?

Arthur raised a hand and the drums stopped their awful thrump, the mob growing silent. His words would be passed down the gauntlet into the main arteries of the town and chronicled by Geoffrey to perhaps be analyzed by scholars long after he'd turned to dust. Merlin hoped today would not stain the beginning of the Golden Age as Arthur believed but be heralded as the end of a very dark one. That old crone had move off the well, edging her way through the sympathetic crowd for a closer look at the berserkers kneeling before their stumps.

"These men invaded our lands. They killed our citizens and broke our families." The king was angry, his loathing tangible. "They took what was yours: your homes, possessions, and loved ones. All of us have suffered from their brutality and our losses have been great. But we've endured the long dark days. We've held true to our courage and stood strong against the forces that tried to crush our kingdom. We prevailed, and I salute you, citizens of Camelot. You, men of Southron, followed a traitor to a lost cause for gain and glory. Face now the reward of your labor. I, Arthur Pendragon, sentence you to death for your acts of war against the kingdom of Camelot and her people."

A short nod of the king's head and the first set of Southrons on the firing line dropped like heavy sacks. These battle-hardened officers didn't beg for their lives or plead for mercy like the low-ranking soldiers who'd shuffled down the gauntlet. They faced their death with honor. Their bodies were dragged away quickly and piled on a cart to make room for the next set of officers being ushered into place. Three more sets of men lined up to meet the firing squad and died just like the first.

Merlin swallowed the lump of sadness in his throat. Watching the berserkers lose their heads was much worse. The sounds of necks crunching and severed heads thumping into baskets were accompanied by merciless cheers from the people, and rightly so. For most, this was the first chance they'd been given to extend their own bit of retribution. Headless bodies joined other corpses tossed onto the carts, heads thrown carelessly on top of them.

After a time, so much blood had colored the cobblestones that Merlin could hear it squish under the boots of men loading up bodily remains in a now hushed crowd. Buckets of water splashed on the empty platforms cleared away some of the crimson, and people started crowding onto them for a better view of Morgana's platform. Merlin had never seen anything like this and couldn't help feeling repulsed at the eagerness to drink in death. Apparently, neither Arthur nor Gwen had expected such fervor either as they exchanged a worried glance.

The hangings would happen all at once using a system of signals and flags. At a nod of the king's head, a red flag would marshal the remaining hundreds of prisoners onto kick boxes and nooses would cinch around their necks. Another nod raised a blue flag to order the boxes kicked away.

Arthur raised a hand, quieting the mob and the drums. Some of the Southrons on the three-man scaffolds whimpered; others still tried pitifully for mercy.

"Observe, my lady. The corruption of your power led these men to their doom." Arthur's voice was dangerous, harder than the stone façade around them. He gave the first signal to position the condemned and secure the nooses. The seconds ticked slowly to Merlin. It seemed like forever before Arthur gave the final signal, and then the rapid succession of boxes, stumps, or barrels being kicked away reverberated against the walls.

The crack of wood and rope and the death gurgle of so many sent tremors through Merlin's body and he bit into his lip. Those up close to the scaffolds were repelled with a collective gasp as eyes bulged or popped from sockets, faces contorted and turned blue, feet frantically kicked, and bodily fluids released involuntarily. Neither he nor Arthur missed the sharp intake of air from Guinevere, or her stuttering release of it. Morgana remained rigid on her center platform, a picture of rage contained even as Death loomed closer to her.

From where he stood, Merlin couldn't see Arthur's face, but the king hadn't moved during the event, seemingly unaffected by the terror of the moment. Merlin had a perfect view of Gwen's profile and noted her faraway gaze, her lips pressed thin. She had been enslaved by these people and he had yet to hear her story. He hoped she would find it in her heart to confide in him once again. He wanted so much to help her through whatever distress still held her captive. Arthur's voice cut into Merlin's thoughts and boomed across the courtyard. It was Morgana's turn.

"All of Camelot was your friend and once cherished you, Morgana. Not once, but twice did you strike against us. Your twisted desire for what was never rightfully yours has caused nothing but suffering throughout this land, and you will receive your just reward. For your acts of treason against the sovereignty and people of Camelot, I, Arthur Pendragon, sentence you to death."

Morgana lifted her chin, her arrogance winning out over her fear. "Dread the Triple Goddess, Arthur Pendragon. I am the last high priestess of the Old Religion, a servant of her most high. Do not for once think that she will not avenge my death."

Merlin agonized over her words. Threats held little sway with Death's hands about her neck and the bracelet around her wrist. Truly, nothing remained of the lady they had loved. Outcomes might have been different if he'd answered her cry for help. He should have told her that nothing had been wrong with her when she'd asked. He'd known exactly what she'd been going through. The warnings of the dragon and the constant demand from his mentor to stay out of her troubles gnawed at him as much as knowing he'd been so afraid back then, too. He'd turned his back on her. What could have been if he'd only embraced her.…

Merlin didn't realize he'd closed his eyes and nearly missed Morgana being forced to her knees by one of the guards, her arms jerked over the wood stump and her chin placed into the nock to extend her neck. The drums started their ominous beat again, and Arthur pulled a silent breath that drew his shoulders to full height. Gwen seemed tense beside him.

The executioner remained unmoving, the sword still down when he looked to the king. Arthur had been assured one stroke would be enough: clean, quick, and precise. _Why did it have to come to this?_ Merlin wondered with forlorn misery. _Would the wrath of the Triple Goddess truly befall Camelot for slaying her most revered servant?_

" _Sound the alarm!"_ someone shouted, stripping his thoughts aside.

" _Archers!"_ another yelled, and Merlin caught his breath, head jerking towards the southwest battlements on the outer wall.

Arthur crouched at the ready, a hand going instinctively to the pommel of Excalibur as Fredrick stepped closer to Gwen, gripping his sword as well. The sheer stone façade and soaring rooftops made it impossible to see who'd shouted, but by the direction, Merlin knew they'd heard sentries on the outer wall walk. In seconds, alarm bells began clanging and the people below stirred with nervous tension. Knights from all the kingdoms pressed their way into the square and the towers. They could hardly make any progress against the spaces packed with spectators seeking to witness the execution of the witch. When a thin layer of impossible fog crept in, Merlin was certain someone meant to attempt a rescue.

"Secure Morgana!" Arthur yelled, pointing toward her with one arm and wrapping the other around Gwen. Six guards rushed the platform and surrounded the high priestess, the executioner, and the guard who'd led her out and had forced her to kneel. Those at the cordoning rope tightened their perimeter, some facing the platform, others poised to defend. Somehow, the old woman had made her way from the berserker's platform to stand not very far from Morgana's.

The hairs on Merlin's neck prickled. The crone posed no threat, he was sure, but someone was. Honestly, he hadn't expected anyone would try to rescue Morgana with the number of allied soldiers still in the city and angry citizens hungry for vengeance. The fool or fools attempting such a rescue were outnumbered in men and magic. Merlin edged forward, shouldering his way in front of Arthur and Gwen. Fredrick did the same, mostly blocking the future queen from potential danger.

The clamor on the southwest battlements grew harrowing. Men screamed in terror. The zing of knights' swords sounded behind him as well as Fredrick's next to him. Guinevere was still secured in Arthur's arm and pressed firmly against Excalibur. The fog thickened, but he could still make out Morgana.

"What in God's name is happening?" Fredrick asked huskily.

"I wish I-" Arthur growled with frustration that turned to shock as a shadow from above stole his words.

A sudden flare of flames blazed from the maw of the great and familiar dragon that swooped over the rooftops, angry and fierce, blinding those on the balcony and dispersing the fog. Many below them screamed and everyone ducked. Arthur turned to shield Gwen just as she crouched low and Fredrick wrapped his arms around them both. Merlin sheltered them all, instinctually throwing up an invisible barrier around the entire balcony. Gods, he hoped no one could tell the difference.

Kilgharrah roared mightily as he hovered over the courtyard, then soared skyward toward the northeast. All of them watched his retreat with wide eyes, opened mouths, and tangible fear.


End file.
